The king is dead, long live the king
by John Spangler
Summary: Aerys dies at Duskendale, and everything changes.
1. Prologue

**The king is dead, long live the king**

_If he had not gone into Duskendale to rescue Aerys from Lord Darklyn's dungeons, the king might well have died there as Tywin Lannister sacked the town. Then Prince Rhaegar would have ascended the Iron Throne, mayhaps to heal the realm. Duskendale had been his finest hour, yet the memory tasted bitter on his tongue.—__**thoughts of Ser Barristan Selmy**_

**Prologue**

**Taken from "Fire and Blood: A comprehensive history of House Targaryen", by Archmaester Yandel of the Citadel**

**Chapter 17: The Ever-Changing King**

_...Despite the later parts of his reign being marked by many events worthy of note, chiefs among them the deterioration of his old friendship with his Hand, Lord Tywin Lannister, and his declining mental health and growing paranoia (mostly due to Queen Rhaella's many miscarriages and stillbirths), King Aerys II will be forever remembered with one nickname: the Ever-Changing King._

_...It is undeniable that, both before and after his crowning, he showed great charm and a will to work hard. However, he was also a man who grew bored easily. He changed his mind as often as he changed his smallclothes. One example of this is the number of mistresses he had over the years. While probably not as high as his infamous ancestor's, Aegon IV, it was indeed high, with each maiden warming the King's bed for a while only to be replaced as soon as a new one happened to strike his fancy._

_Another example are all the grand projects King Aerys liked to boast about. The annexation of the Stepstones; the building of a new Wall in the far north; the invasion of Braavos (the latter was suggested after a dispute with the Iron Bank. The King lost interest in this, too, and later Lord Tywin was able to settle the dispute. And we should all be grateful for this, for making an enemy of the Iron Bank invites only death and despair). All of these schemes came to nothing, and King Aerys' reign went on, until that fateful day in the 277th year after the Conqueror's crowning…_

_...Nobody knows for certain what went wrong, that night. All that is known, is that Ser Barristan's rescue attempt failed, and both he and the King died. And, after waiting for the end of the ultimatum he had previously given, Lord Tywin stormed the city. Just like he had done years before with the Reynes and Tarbecks, he showed Duskendale no mercy. Every house was put to the torch. All the men, women, and even children, died by his host's blades. The nobles of the city died with their smallfolk. Lord Denys Darklyn, for his role as instigator of the whole affair, was tortured for hours on end together with his family. Later, his body was cut into seven pieces, each of them put on a pike placed right in front of the gates of King's Landing, so that everybody could witness the end that awaited any who dared defy the Iron Throne._

_...This may seem cruel to some people. Truth is, Lord Tywin simply did what he had to. For all men, from the highest lord to the lowest gutter rat, shall eventually reap what they have sown..._

**XXXXXX**

**Taken from "Songs of the Sunset Lands", by Jaqen Wunel, Pentoshi scholar**

**The Doom that came to Duskendale**

_(__**AN: **__Lyrics shamelessly stolen and adapted from "The price of a mile", by Sabaton__)___

_Hear the sound of marching feet,  
Hear it echo through the night.  
Rams battering, hear their song!  
Break the walls that once stood strong._

_The Doom has come to the city  
Where the King met his end.  
Roads and houses, to the sword!  
The bold knight is no more._

_Now many a man will suffer,  
Now many a man will die.  
Beware, Lord Darklyn!  
The Doom has come to Duskendale!_

_And as the night falls, the lion lord calls,  
And the killing carries on and on.  
That is the price of it all.  
That is the price of defiance!_

_Thousands of lives lost that night,  
The whole city in despair.  
Knee deep in blood,  
Stuck in the flames, with no way out._

_Thousands of dying people  
Keep on screaming through the night.  
Torches blaze and wreck the scene,  
Raze the fields that once were green._

_It's a slaugtherhouse in the city  
Where the King met his end.  
Roads and houses since long gone,  
The dusk city is no more._

_Now that many a man has suffered,  
Now that many a man has died,  
Curse you, Lord Darklyn!  
You brought the Doom to your city!_

_And as the night falls, the lion lord calls,  
And the killing carries on and on.  
That is the price of it all.  
That is the price of defiance!_

_Thousands of lives lost that night,  
The whole city in despair.  
Knee deep in blood,  
Stuck in the flames, with no way out._

**XXXXXX**

**Taken from "Fire and Blood: A comprehensive history of House Targaryen", by Archmaester Yandel of the Citadel**

**Chapter 18: The Bard King**

_...King Rhaegar I was undoubtedly one of the most beloved Targaryen kings. With his soft voice and friendly demeanour, he was able to win friends all over the Seven Kingdoms. It wasn't just that, of course. King Rhaegar may have been a kind soul, but he was also more than able to show the inner strength and determination required to rule the realm. At times he has been compared to "an iron fist in a velvet glove", and this image is by no means far from the truth..._

_...His favorite pastime had always been playing the harp, ever since he was a prince. He played for his family, his friends and the guests of the Red Keep. He also often played for the smallfolk, which has earned him his famous nickname. The Bard King was an accomplished harp player, and perhaps in another world he could have made a career out of it..._

_...Of all his performances, the one that people tend to remember the most, is the one that took place the day of his wedding in the year 282 at Harrenhal, right before the tourney. When King Rhaegar, after five years on the Iron Throne, took Cersei of House Lannister as wife..._

_**AN:**__ And here I am again, with another AU! Gods willing, this time I'll write something better. Because let's be honest, Flight of the Imp had some flaws. And hopefully, I've learned something from writing it. This time there'll be just five POV characters, a more logical plot, and a darker ending. And when I say darker, I mean...well, I can't say it because it would spoil the plot. I just hope you'll like it. I'll try to post a chapter every two weeks, but know that sometimes it may come later than that. Have faith, though; the story will be completed._

_Thanks in advance to whoever will read this. See you soon, dear readers!_


	2. Beron I

**Part 1: The world as we don't know it**

**Beron I**

_The Red Keep, 289 AC_

_The royal sept inside Maegor's Holdfast_

The eyes of the Warrior stared at him impassively. They had been doing that for the whole night. Why did he even bother glancing at them, anyway? It was just a statue. It wasn't as if it could move or talk. Now, that would be a sight to see. An interesting diversion that would, at the very least, alleviate some of his boredom.

Beron sighed, lowering his head again and closing his eyes. _When is it going to end?_ He already knew it was going to be a boring affair, having experienced it years before. Standing vigil for the whole night was by no means fun, like feasting with your friends or bedding a beautiful maid.

His body was on the verge of falling asleep. He kept himself awake by sheer force of will. He couldn't ruin the cerimony. It would be a disappointment not just for himself (he always did go all the way down, once he set himself to do something), but for an entire host of people. His lord father, to name just one. His other kin, chief among them his elder brother. And most importantly, the man that had knighted him, and who he greatly respected. He had to endure the wait a little more. Then, it would be all over, and he would be able to do something which implied more activity on his part.

Beron muttered another prayer to the Seven, just for safety. Then, out of old habit, he added one to the Drowned God. He chastised himself soon after. That wasn't his faith anymore. He highly doubted his old god would listen to him, now. Assuming that what the Drowned Men said about him was true, that is. And anyway, he had never paid too much attention to religion. He had partaken into the rituals and said the prayers, but without putting too much heart into it. And he wasn't the only one. His father, too, had always just done the bare minimum to save appearances.

He felt a pang of nostalgia. Leaving his old life behind to live among the greenlanders hadn't been easy. From time to time he missed his home, and wondered if he would ever see it again. He half snickered. What a stupid thought. It wasn't as if he was going to die. And even if everything went smoothly, he would still get a chance to visit his home island. Even the black brothers of the Night's Watch left the Wall, once in a while.

Beron focused his attention on his new sword, which he had placed at the feet of the statue. That weapon would be his constant companion for the foreseeble future. He would train with it, fight with it, and think of it as he would of his closest friend.

For a brief moment, he wondered what his ancestors would think of him, if they saw him now. He decided he didn't care that much. Thinking about things past was pointless. He had to take care of the here and now.

His stomach grumbled. He hoped he would get to eat something good, after the cerimony. Boar, maybe, or deer. He was starving, for gods' sake!

After a while (he couldn't tell how much; he had lost track of time), he heard a noise from outside the room he was in, and someone fumbling with the lock. He held his breath. It must be over! What else could it be?

In fact, as soon as the door opened, an old septon poked his head in. "You may leave this room, young man."

Hiding his excitement, Beron nodded to the septon. He rose to his feet and put his sword back into its scabbard, then followed the other man outside of the room.

He was led to a large hall full of people. Most of the members of the Small Council were there, together with the whole Kingsguard and the High Septon. Beron couldn't help but notice once again how Ser Gerold Hightower still looked strong, despite his age. Next to him was Lord Tywin, the king's goodfather and Hand, and then Queen Cersei, as beautiful as ever, holding her newborn third child in her arms.

Then he noticed his kin, and a smile appeared on his face. His father, elder brother and cousins were standing next to the Greyjoys. Lord Quellon, as big as Ser Gerold and just as old, if not older. His aunt and her children, his cousins. Rodrik, Maron, Asha, and little Theon, the latter holding his sister's hand. Beron was happy to see them.

And in front of them all, King Rhaegar, handsome and elegant in his black and red robe, with the sigil of House Targaryen on his breast and a crown resembling a circle of flames on his head. The king was only thirty, but the beard he had started growing and the fatigue of ruling the realm made him look older.

Beron knelt in front of his king and waited.

"My lords and ladies," the king spoke. "we are gathered here today to witness an event that has no precedent in the history of the Seven Kingdoms. Something that marks a new era in the relationships between the people of the Iron Islands and the Iron Throne.

"Eight years ago we took the first step, when the brave iron captains started accompanying our merchants in their journeys eastward, to protect them from pirates and thieves. And I'm proud to say that nobody has come to regret this..."

_Except for the pirates themselves_, Beron thought with amusement. He listened as King Rhaegar kept on talking about the benefits brought by this and Lord Quellon's other reforms. Not everybody saw it like that, though. He knew that some of the iron lords resented the change, and that many on the mainland viewed the ironborn as untrustworthy. Not that he could blame them, of course, what with all the history of pillage and bloodshed the Iron Islands had accumulated over the centuries. However, hopefully all this would change in a few years.

"...but enough talking. If I had wanted to annoy people with my voice, I would have brought my harp." said the king, and everybody chuckled. Except for Lord Tywin, who just stood there looking at everything and everyone with his perpetual scowl. Beron wondered if he ever smiled. As far as he could remember, he had never seen him doing it.

"Ser Gerold, Your Holiness. If you would come forth..."

The High Septon and the Lord Commander stepped forward, each carrying the item required for the cerimony. The holy man was the first to begin.

"I bless you in the name of the Father..." he said, touching Beron's forehead with a finger dipped in holy oil and tracing the sign of the seven-pointed star. Beron's heart started beating faster.

After the High Septon had completed the blessing, it was Ser Gerold's turn. The White Bull looked at Beron and spoke. "Do you swear, before the eyes of gods and men, to protect your king and his family, even at the cost of your own life?"

"I swear." answered Beron.

"Do you swear to forsake every claim to your former life, to your House's holdings and titles?"

"I swear."

"Do you swear to never take a wife, to never father children?"

"I swear."

"Do you swear to always stay true to your vows?"

"I swear."

Then Ser Gerold took the white cloak he had been holding and placed it on Beron's shoulders. "Then rise, Ser Beron of House Harlaw, and join your brothers in the Kingsguard."

The Lord Commander's words were followed by a flood of applauses that echoed throughout the hall. Beron rose to his feet and smiled. His new life had just begun.

_**AN: **__The ASOIAF Wiki says that the cerimony for the appointment of a new kingsguard can vary, so I thought it could include a night in a sept, just like for normal knights. And now, a few explanations:_

_1: We know from canon that Rodrik Harlaw had two tall sons who died in the Greyjoy Rebellion, but aside from this, we know nothing else, not even their names. This is why I call Beron a "sorta OC"; a canon character about whom we know next to nothing. He's one of the three main POV characters for this fic, and I hope you'll at least not hate him._

_2: While I was working on the plot, I kept on struggling with what to do with the ironborn. Then, I remembered reading a particular oneshot on alternate . "Black Harren's Revenge", by CaekDaemon. With the author's permission, I borrowed something from that story. Specifically, Quellon's ideas for getting closer to the Iron Throne (having ironborn captains escorting westerosi merchants and...the way Quellon dealt with his sons). Anything else you've seen in this chapter, is a product of my twisted mind. "Wait," you're surely thinking. "What happened to Balon and his brothers?". Well, you can either go read Caek's oneshot, if you don't mind spoilers; or, you can follow this story and see what happens next. And I assure you, you're in for a few surprises._

_3: Some of you are surely thinking "Wait, why isn't Tywin looking happier? His daughter is queen!". Well, this is Tywin we are talking about. If he started smiling, people'd take it as a sign of the apocalypse._

_That's all for today. See you in two weeks, with the next POV character!_


	3. Minisa I

**Minisa I**

_Winterfell, 293 AC_

_The Great Hall_

The hall was filled to bursting with people, their voices and laughters echoing in the air. Some men were singing songs more fitting for a low-life tavern, not for a nameday feast. Her father did nothing to stop them, though, and from his smile she could tell he was enjoying it. Most of the ladies in the hall looked at them disapprovingly, her mother especially. The only exception was Lady Maege Mormont, who not only laughed at the singing, but decided to join it by intoning a song that Minisa didn't immediately recognize. A song that made the other ladies' cheeks turn as red as her hair just at the first lyrics.

"A bear there was, a bear, a bear." sang Lady Maege, and Lord Mormont clapped his hands at the rhythm of his aunt's voice. "All black and brown and covered in hair!"

Minisa didn't mind those songs, far from it. She enjoyed the joyous atmosphere they had brought in the hall when Ser Wendel had started singing, though she didn't quite understand what they were about. Like this one. Why did everyone chuckle at "he licked the honey from her hair?" What was so hilarious about a bear helping a maiden in distress? She would have to ask her father or mother. Or maybe her uncles. They would surely know something like that.

She was sitting at the great table with her family, her father at the head and her mother at his right. Minisa and her little sisters sat at their father's left. Her uncles were there, too, even Uncle Ned from Storm's End. She really liked Uncle Ned, and though she loved all her uncles the same, he was her favorite. She really didn't understand why some people seemed to dislike him. They said he was too "southronized". Of course, it was to be expected that he would lose some of his old habits, after years of living in the Stormlands. Where was the problem with that? Why did many northmen seem to think of the southrons and their ways with such disdain? Minisa hadn't met many southrons, but if they were all like her mother and Uncle Bryn, then they couldn't be that bad, could they? She had never been further south than Barrowton, but one day she hoped to travel beyond the Neck and see all the places she had only heard of. And maybe, just maybe, that way she would even be able to assist to a tourney. From what her mother and the septa had told her, tourneys were beautiful celebrations where knights showed their value to the rest of the realm. A pity there weren't any in the North. Perhaps she could ask her father if they could host one.

Next to her kin were sitting the great lords of the North. Some, like Lord Cerwyn and his son, she already knew. Their castle was closer to Winterfell than all the others, and Minisa had met them often over the years. Others she had met so seldomly that they were basically strangers to her, like Lords Umber and Bolton. The former was a big and boisterous man, whose laughter boomed like a thunder, and to whom she had already taken a liking. The latter, on the other hand...well, he scared her. There was something about the Lord of the Dreadfort that send cold chills down her spine. However, she made sure to be polite and courteous with him too, like the septa had thought her. One day she would inherit Winterfell, unless a brother was born in the meantime, and it wouldn't hurt to start forming good relationships with her future bannermen.

Only then she realized there was one person missing. Her brother, Torrhen, was nowhere to be seen. How strange. Torrhen had always been present at her previous namedays, so why wasn't he here now? Maybe he wasn't feeling well. Or maybe her mother had asked her father to not let him into the hall. Yes, that had to be the reason. Her mother had never looked kindly to her husband's bastard, and although she had always done her best to tolerate his presence at Winterfell, she would never let him attend an important event such as Minisa's tenth nameday. She felt sorry for Torrhen. It wasn't his fault that he was born a bastard. Some things just happened. She decided to save a piece of cake for later and bring it to Torrhen. He would surely appreciate it!

Lady Mormont ended her song, and was rewarded by an enthusiastic applause from the men in the hall. Her mother breathed a sigh of relief and whispered a thanks to the Seven. Her father waited for the applauses to die down, then rose to his feet and cleared his troath. Silence fell on the hall as everybody's eyes turned toward him and waited.

"My lords and ladies," he spoke, with what her mother called his "lord's voice". It was still his voice, of course, just different from when he spoke to his family and friends. "First, let me thank you all for being here for my daughter's tenth nameday..."

From the corner of her eye, Minisa noticed her mother looking at Lady Dustin. The Lady of Barrowton held her mother's gaze for about a second, before turning it back to her father. She saw her mother narrowing her eyes and clenching her fists, and asked herself what had happened between the two of them. Their interactions, ever since Lady Dustin arrived at Winterfell with her husband and sons, had been quite cold. Maybe they simply didn't like each other much? How could that be? Her mother was such a sweet and gentle lady. Everybody liked her.

"...now, though, I have an important announcement to make." her father said after a few moments. "In a few years, my daughter Minisa will be a woman grown. And after my death, she will be the next Lady of Winterfell. Of course, she will need a husband, to help her rule and give her children." He paused, and Minisa repeated those words into her mind. _A husband_. She knew that sooner or later she would have to marry, and that her parents would choose a husband for her. She just hoped it would be a good boy. Someone strong and gentle, who would protect her and comfort her when she needed it. Someone like her father, maybe, or Uncle Ned.

Her father spoke again. "After much deliberation, and after consulting with my lady wife, I made my choice. Therefore, I formally announce my daughter's bethrothal to my nephew Edwyle Stark, son to my brother Benjen."

Minisa blinked her eyes in surprise. She hadn't expected that! It was hardly an unusual occurrence, though. Her own grandfather had married a cousin of his, and many other lords throughout the realm had done that.

She glanced at her cousin, who was sitting at his father's left. Judging from his face, he too was surprised by the announcement.

"My brother has agreed to the bethrothal, which will be formally signed later this day. The wedding will take place once both Edwyle and Minisa will be six and ten. Their children will inherit Winterfell, unless the gods see fit to bless me and my lady wife with a son, while Sea Dragon Point will go to Benjen's second son, Artos."

Minisa smiled. Edwyle was only a few months older than her, a nice boy who always managed to make her laugh. She was glad that her parents had chosen him as her future husband, and hoped that Edwyle felt the same about her.

Her father took his cup, which had just been refilled with wine, and raised it. "And now, my lords and ladies, I would like to make a toast. To Minisa and Edwyle, may the gods bless them with a long and happy marriage."

As everybody raised their own cups, Minisa looked at Edwyle and smiled. He smiled back at her, although a bit shyly. Later, after the feast had ended and the dancing started, she accepted Edwyle's invitation to dance. He was a little clumsy, though, and after stepping on her feet four times in a row, he solemnly swore to learn how to dance properly in time for their wedding.

Minisa laughed, and hugged her cousin.

_**AN:**__ Minisa is the second of the three main POV characters. Brandon and Catelyn's eldest daughter, she has her mother's hair and her father's eyes. And in case you're wondering, the Uncle Bryn she mentioned is the Blackfish. ITTL, he went with Catelyn and became Winterfell's master at arms._

_The next chapter, the last of Part 1, will take us to Storm's End, and will be told from the POV of...a vastly different canon character._

_See you in two weeks, folks!_


	4. Errol I

**Errol I**

_Somewhere in Shipbreaker Bay, 296 AC_

The wheather today was unusually calm, for the Stormlands. There were just a few clouds in the sky, and enough wind to propel the ship's sails. It was also quite warm. Not as much as the days in Dorne, but warm nonetheless.

Errol walked back and forth, like he did every time he was nervous. He had been doing that for quite some time, and by now, he was sure his feet had left a trail on the ship's deck.

_I must stay calm, I must stay calm_, he kept on telling himself. He took a couple of deep breaths. _I must stay calm._

_Look at yourself_, said his inner voice. _Father would be ashamed of you. Letting your anxiety ruling yourself like this..._

_Shut up! Father isn't here_, he thought. He was accustomed to talking with himself. It was something that helped him think clearly and ease the tension. Of course, nobody else knew about that. At the very least, they would lock him into a room and never let him out. _And even if he were, I couldn't care less about what he thinks_. Errol had never let his father's opinions rule his actions, and he wasn't going to do it now.

_You should calm down_, the voice said again. _It's almost as if you were riding into battle against Balerion the Black Dread. Relax. Father raised you better than that._

Errol stopped in his tracks. _If you mention Father once again, I swear I will..._

_You will, what? Hit me? You would just end up hurting yourself. Besides, you know I'm right. You aren't doing something particularly troublesome. You are just heading toward the place you were assigned._

_And you think it's nothing I should concern myself with? It's the castle where I will be spending the rest of my life! The House I will be serving!_

_And what do you think their first impression of you will be, when they will see a nervous wreck entering their halls? They will dismiss you as a weakling! They will say "Look at this one! Are all Dornishmen so pathetic?" Is that what you want?_

Errol grunted. As much as he hated to admit it, his inner voice was right. He wanted to make a good impression on his future lord and lady, and he couldn't do that if his nerves got the better of him.

_What do you suggest?_

_Nothing too complicated. Just clear your mind, and think of something relaxing._

Errol did just that. He thought of the blood oranges he loved so much, of how the juice would run down his chin and neck every time he took a few bites. He thought of his early childhood, and the entire days spent running around the Water Gardens and playing with his cousins and sisters. He thought of the first time he had witnessed the vast libraries of Oldtown. All those thousands and thousands of books, with their knowledge and wisdom...

Those thoughts managed to bring a measure of peace to his mind, and a little smile to his face.

_See? What did I tell you?_

He put his hands on the railing and sighed. _You were right_, he thought begrudgingly. He heard the voice chuckle, and after that it thankfully went silent. Errol just stared at the horizon, and waited.

After a while, when he was starting to wonder if they would ever arrive, he heard a sailor cry. He looked up, and finally saw it.

Storm's End loomed in the far distance, surrounded by its massive wall, a shield from the fury of the elements. Its only, colossal tower stood against the sky, an act of defiance toward the gods of sea and air and a testament to the willfulness of its masters.

_Gods, it's...it's huge_. The Hightower of Oldtown was taller, but Storm's End was still an impressive sight. Both had been built in the ancient past by the First Men, and both had been the bane of many a besieging army over the centuries.

_There it is_, the voice came back. _Our new home._

He wondered if he would ever come to think of the massive castle as home. _Well, at the very least I will get used to it._

There was no safe anchorage by the castle, so they had to dock somewhere else. Errol took that time to ready himself. He thought of the Baratheons, and wondered what kind of people they were. Of course, he would do his best to serve them. He thought of their current, ageing maester, and hoped they would get along.

_Stop thinking, just..._

_Shut up!_ Errol thought, and patiently waited for the ship to dock.

_**AN:**__ This came out shorter than I originally intended. Anyway, meet young Errol Sand, the "vastly different canon character" I mentioned earlier. What do I mean? You will find out in his next POV. Just know that in canon he was born female._

_In two weeks there'll be an interlude, and after that the first chapter of the second part of the story, where we'll see a familiar face paying a visit at Winterfell._

_Thanks for reading, folks!_


	5. Interlude I

**INTERLUDE I: THE REALM IN THE YEAR 297 AC**

**THE ROYAL FAMILY**

_Rhaegar Targaryen, First of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms, and Protector of the Realm_

_Cersei Lannister, his wife and queen_

_Visenya Targaryen, their firstborn_

_Aegon Targaryen, Prince of Dragonstone_

_Rhaenys Tarharyen, their youngest_

_Viserys Targaryen, Prince of Summerhall (which will be given to him as soon the rebuilding process ends), bethrothed to Margaery Tyrell (1)_

_Sandor Clegane, Prince Aegon's sworn shield_

_Tygett Lannister, master at arms of the Red Keep_

**THE SMALL COUNCIL**

_Lord Tywin Lannister, Hand of the King and Warden of the West_

_Lord Jon Connington, Master of Laws_

_Lord Rodrik Harlaw, Master of Coin_

_Lord Paxter Redwyne, Master of Ships_

_Lord Varys, Master of Whispers_

_Ser Alliser Thorne, Commander of the City Watch_

_Grand Maester Pycelle_

**THE KINGSGUARD**

_Ser Arthur Dayne, Lord Commander_

_Ser Oswell Whent_

_Ser Jonothor Darry_

_Ser Beron Harlaw_

_Ser Daven Lannister_

_Ser Waymar Royce_

_Ser Loras Tyrell (1)_

**THE NORTH**

_Brandon Stark, Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North_

_Catelyn Tully, his lady wife_

_Minisa Stark, their firstborn and heir, bethrothed to her cousin Edwyle_

_Berena, Alysanne, and Arya, their youngest_

_Ser Brynden Tully, master at arms of Winterfell_

_Torrhen Snow, Lord Brandon's only male child_

_Maester Luwin_

_Benjen Stark, Lord of Sea Dragon Point_

_Ysilla Waynwood, his lady wife (2)_

_Edwyle Stark, their firstborn, bethrothed to his cousin Minisa_

_Artos Stark, heir to Sea Dragon Point_

_Theon Stark, their youngest_

**THE RIVERLANDS**

_Hoster Tully, Lord of Riverrun and Lord Paramount of the Riverlands_

_Ser Edmure Tully, his son and heir, bethrothed to Argella Baratheon (3)_

**THE VALE**

_Jon Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie and Warden of the East_

_Elbert Arryn, his nephew and heir_

_Elia Martell, Elbert's lady wife_

_Mors Arryn, their firstborn_

_Loreza Arryn, their youngest_

_Lord Petyr Baelish_

_Ser Andar Royce, heir to Runestone_

_Ashara Dayne, his lady wife_

_Edric Royce, their firstborn_

_Olyvar and Arthur Royce, their youngest_

**THE STORMLANDS**

_Robert Baratheon, Lord of Storm's End and Lord Paramount of the Stormlands_

_Lyanna Stark, his lady wife_

_Eddard Baratheon, their firstborn and heir_

_Jon, Rickard, and Ormund, their youngest_

_Ser Eddard Stark, castellan of Storm's End_

_Jeyne Swann, his lady wife_

_Sansa Stark, their firstborn_

_Jon Stark, their youngest_

_Ser Renly Baratheon_

_Cassana Estermont, Lady Dowager of Storm's End_

_Argella Baratheon, bethrothed to Edmure Tully_

_Maester Cressen_

_Errol Sand, Cressen's helper and future replacement_

_Stannis Baratheon, Lord of Stag's Den (4)_

_Lysa Tully, his lady wife_

_Cassana Baratheon, their firstborn_

_Edric and Hoster Baratheon, their youngest_

**THE WESTERLANDS**

_Ser Jaime Lannister, heir to Casterly Rock_

_Janna Tyrell, his lady wife_

_Joffrey Lannister, their firstborn and heir_

_Tommen and Olenna Lannister, their youngest_

_Tyrion Lannister, castellan of the Rock_

_Ser Gerion Lannister, master at arms of the Rock_

_Ser Kevan Lannister_

**THE REACH**

_Mace Tyrell, Lord of Highgarden and Warden of the South_

_Alerie Hightower, his lady wife_

_Willas Tyrell, their firstborn and heir, bethrothed to Asha Greyjoy_

_Ser Garlan Tyrell_

_Olenna Redwyne, Lady Dowager of Highgarden_

**THE IRON ISLANDS**

_Rodrik Greyjoy, Lord Reaper of Pyke and Lord of the Iron Islands_

_Cerenna Lannister, his lady wife_

_Dagon Greyjoy, their firstborn and heir_

_Maron Greyjoy_

_Asha Greyjoy, bethrothed to Willas Tyrell_

_Theon Greyjoy_

_Maester Gormon_

**DORNE**

_Doran Nymeros Martell, Lord of Sunspear and Prince of Dorne_

_Arianne Nymeros Martell, his firstborn and heir_

_Quentyn Nymeros Martell, his youngest (5)_

_Oberyn Nymeros Martell_

**THE WALL**

_Jeor Mormont, Lord Commander of the Night's Watch_

_Mance Rayder, King-Beyond-the-Wall_

_(1) Mace and his wife had a couple of twins in 281 AC, which were named like their canon counterparts._

_(2) One of Alys Arryn's daughters._

_(3) Born in 282 AC, she is Robert's youngest and only sister._

_(4) Canon Seaworth Keep._

_(5) In this AU, Doran's wife died giving birth to Quentyn._

_**AN:**__ I hope you liked the interlude. See you in two weeks, folks!_


	6. Minisa II

**Part 2: Blood, sweat, and tears**

**Minisa II**

**Winterfell, 297 AC**

The handsome knight kissed her hand and smiled at her. "My lady, it is a honor to finally be able to see your beautiful face."

Minisa blushed and giggled. "You are too kind, ser." She and the knight were standing in the middle of the godswood. Aside from a silent raven perched on the heart tree, they were alone.

"I am merely speaking the truth, my lady. A visage such as yours is so uncommon that even the gods would be envious. The Maiden herself isn't as beautiful as you!"

She didn't know how to reply to that. People had always told that she was as beautiful as her mother, but to be compared to the Maiden...that was unexpected! It was also flattering, though. Hearing those words had made her heart beat like never before.

"Now, I would ask something of you, if you will allow me..."

"What is it, ser?" The raven cawed, but she ignored it.

"I...perhaps it is a little too bold of me, but...may I please kiss you? I would consider myself the luckiest man alive if I could touch your lips even if just for a moment."

Minisa answered immediately, her heart taking over her rational mind for a moment. "Of course you can kiss me, ser!" Then, she added: "Just be quick, though. I am bethrothed." She was sure that just a quick peck on the lips wouldn't constitute a betrayal.

The knight nodded, his smile never once leaving his face. "Thank you, my Lady of Stark." He then leaned closer to Minisa. She opened her mouth and closed her eyes in anticipation, and then...

...she opened her eyes to find herself in her bed. She was sweating, and the fur blanket had somehow ended up as a tangled mess at her feet.

"Oh..." She took a look around herself, her eyes still dazed from sleep, just to be sure. Yes, it was her bedchamber, and she was awake. There was no mistaking it. It had all been just a dream. A patricularly vivid one, though. It had all seemed so real. The warm air on her skin, the knight's eyes and his beautiful smile...

Minisa felt a pang of guilt at that thought. It had been just a dream, but she had let another man kiss her...almost. What would her parents, and Edwyle think about that? She chastised herself for what had happened, and decided to go to the sept right before breakfast and ask the gods for forgiveness. Edwyle was her future lord and husband. She had to think of him and him only!

She made to rise, only then realizing something was wrong. Why did she feel wet on her legs? She reached the wet spot with her hand. It was...why was it warm? What was it? She brought her hand up to her face, and saw. It was...

_...blood?_

Her scream was heard througout the entire castle.

"Minisa, honey, you need to calm down." her mother said later, amid her pants and moans. Uncle Bryn waited for the serving girls to take the bloody sheets away and closed the door, then sat next to Minisa on the bed.

"Your mother is right, girl. You're panicking as if you had seen the Stranger himself. Calm down." he gently patted her head. "There are worse things in life."

"But...but..." she tried to say. Her voice came out in feeble whispers, such was her state.

"You just had your first moon blood, Minisa. It's nothing to be afraid of. It happens to all women." Her mother took her hand in hers. "It just means you are growing up."

Minisa looked at her mother. "So...does this mean I'm a woman, now?" She had been told about moon blood and flowering, of course, but actually experiencing it was something completely different.

"Not yet." Uncle Bryn said. "You are barely four and ten. You are a maid."

"Exactly. You are a young, beautiful maid. Like the ones from the songs you like so much." Minisa's mother kissed her forehead.

"A maid..." She took a couple of deep breaths, her terror slowly disappearing.

"Do you feel better, now?" She looked at her mother, who smiled in response. Minisa nodded slowly. She did feel a little calmer.

"I was so scared..."

"It's normal. One moment you were sleeping, and when you wake up you find blood running down your legs? Hells, in your place I would have been scared too." Uncle Bryn reassured her.

That made her smile. If even a seasoned warrior like Uncle Bryn could be scared by something like this, then she had nothing to be ashamed of.

The rest of the day went on uneventfully. She prayed in the sept, played with her sisters, and attended the Septa's lessons.

Then, just before sunset, she accompanied her mother to the solar. A guest was coming from the south, and with her father away at Storm's End to visit Aunt Lya and Uncle Ned, it fell to Minisa and her mother to greet him properly.

She sat on her mother's right, and briefly glanced at her growing belly. Ever since finding out she was with child for the fifth time, her mother had been praying for it to be a son. Minisa, too, would have liked to have another brother to play with, and hoped the gods would listen to her mother's prayers.

One of the guards outside the solar entered and announced the visitor. Minisa saw her mother smile as a man she didn't know walked into the room. He was short, with a small pointed beard on his chin and dark hair with threads of grey.

"Petyr..." her mother said warmly, and the visitor smiled.

_**AN: **__I think an explanation is in order. Catelyn's marriage to Brandon isn't like her canon relationship with Ned. Brandon was never cruel to her, far from it. However, they never fell in love, and he never once stopped whoring, though he at least was discreet about it. As a consequence, their marriage was quite cold. So, Catelyn looked for warmth wherever she could. Religion, the Blackfish, her daughters...and her dear old friend Petyr, with whom she started a secret correspondence. As for what Littlefinger is doing at Winterfell, is he merely visiting an old friend...or is there something more? You'll have to wait a little to find out._

_Next chapter will take place at Storm's End, where we will see Errol again and...someone will die._


	7. Errol II

_**Errol II**_

**Storm's End, 297 AC**

**The library**

_"...and so it was that Durran, who was by now already known as Godsgrief, began the construction of what would become his family's seat. Seven times the gods of wind and sea tried to destroy it, and seven times Durran built it again, until finally the castle stood proudly on the northern shore of Shipbreaker Bay..."_

Errol closed the thick tome and coughed as a little cloud of dust reached his face. Gods, how many years had passed since someone had last opened that book? He suspected that at least half of its weight was due to the layer of dust that had formed over the decades. The trails his fingers had left had to be at least a few inches deep!

He yawned loudly. He had spent most of that day between the shelves of the castle's library, moving, cataloguing and sometimes reading the books, and now he felt tired. So tired, that he had to exercise all his will to stay awake and not fall asleep face first on the table.

_Cressen could have sent you somewhere else_, his inner voice said suddenly. _Why did he have to pick the library, of all places?_

_Someone has to take care of it, and he had other matters to attend to._ Errol was grateful for being assigned that task. He loved books more than anything else in the world, and over the years had often spent entire days reading alone in his room. He was so unlike his father. He too had been at the Citadel, then leaving out of boredom. Errol never got bored of reading and learning, and had no intention of abandoning what was his life's dream. And where Oberyn Martell was tall and impulsive, Errol was short and quiet. As quiet as an empty grave, as sometimes his older sisters liked to tease him.

He felt a pang of nostalgia at that thought. Sometimes he missed his old life, his sisters especially. They had taken after their father way more than Errol himself, although their relationship had always been good. When he was still a child they would often play with him, comfort him after his frequent fights with their father, and cheer him up when he needed it.

The only thing he didn't miss, was his father. It had been a few years since they had last seen each other. For all he knew, he could even be dead, but Errol still wouldn't care about him. It was sad for a father and a son to be on short terms, but he supposed that sometimes, family love just didn't develop for some people.

_At least he didn't abandon you. Say whatever you want about Father, but he never shied away from his responsibilities as a parent. He raised you as best as he could, and gave you a chance to forge your own path in life._

Errol shook his head angrily. How he hated when his inner voice was right! Why couldn't it be wrong, sometimes?

_You need someone to tell you the harsh truth, you idiot. For all your wits and knowledge, sometimes it's as if you had a veil over your eyes!_

_Enough!_ Errol had grown tired of that banter. _Could you please shut up until tomorrow morning? I don't want to end up with a headache, or worse._

_As you wish, Your Patheticness._ And then, finally, there was silence. Errol breathed a sigh of relief and took the volume he had been reading. He put it back in its place and made to leave the room. He had completed his task. If Cressen had no more need of him for that day, he could go to bed a little earlier.

However, things didn't always go as one hoped or planned. For just after he had closed the door to the library behind his back, a guard rushed toward him.

"You are to come with me, Maester Errol. Maester Cressen requires your aid." Errol felt anxiety creeping into his heart. Had Cressen fallen again? The old man walked with a cane and was always especially careful when walking the stairs. He knew that another fall like the one that had preceeded Errol's arrival could very well kill him. If that was the case...

"What happened?"

"I don't know, they just told me to come fetch you."

The guard led him not to the maester's cell, like he had expected, but to a lower level of the tower, the one where the bedchambers were located. It was after entering into one of them that Errol finally found out why he had been called.

"A hunting incident, boy. The boar they had cornered had enough energy left to charge at them." Cressen explained as soon as he saw him. The old man had a look on his face that spoke of something terrible. Errol had never seen him like this. "I can't do this alone. It's a bad wound, we must act quickly!"

Errol couldn't agree more. The wounded man laying on the bed in front of them was in such a bad shape that he wondered how he could be still alive. His face was pale like the moon, blood flowed copiously from a wound on his belly, his eyes were half closed, and he kept on muttering curses that made Errol's ears turn red.

"Fucking bastard...that hurt...what a feast it's going to be when..."

"Hush, my lord. You need all your strength right now. Don't waste it cursing a dead animal." Cressen whispered to the wounded man. "Help me clean the wound, boy. He has already lost too much blood."

Errol did as he was told. Luckily, his studies at the Citadel had sometimes implied dissecting corpses or healing wounds. He was used to the sight of blood and human organs.

He and Cressen spent what looked like an eternity around the bed, doing their best to heal the wounded man. However, it seemed that fate, or the gods themselves, had something different in store for them that day.

"GODS, NO!" Cressen screamed, and Errol's face mirrored the old man's feelings. It had all been in vain. In the end, their efforts had amounted to nothing.

Lord Brandon Stark was dead.

_**AN: **__Brandon isn't going to be the last one to die. You see, there's a reason why I called this part of the story "Blood, sweat, and tears". _


	8. Beron II

**Beron II**

**King's Landing, 297 AC**

**The Red Keep**

"...so, what do you think of my new dress, Ser Beron?"

He didn't know what to say at first. Then, a few seconds later, he answered. "Well, it's...lovely, Your Grace." He wasn't an expert on clothes and the like, but that dress was truly good looking, and it fit her body quite nicely.

Princess Visenya seemed to beam with joy at his words. She smiled and twirled a lock of her long silver-gold hair with a finger. Out of the three royal siblings, she was the one that had taken the most after their father. Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys, on the other hand, mostly resembled their mother, both in features and personality.

"Thank you, ser. I knew you would like it." she giggled. The princess was a cheerful and intelligent young maid, who got along with basically anyone. It was rumored that she had even managed to make her grim grandfather smile. Overall, she was a pleasant person to have around, beautiful to look at, and a good conversationalist.

There was just one little problem...

"Princess...did you wear this dress just to impress me?"

She looked at him indignantly. "Of course not, Ser Beron. Why would I do that?" Beron noticed her cheeks slightly reddening. The princess may have many qualities, but she was a terrible liar. He had long since noticed her clumsy attempts to seduce him. A smile here, a few words there...she clearly didn't know what to do. Not that Beron would reciprocate her attentions, if she did. A kingsguard's duty was to protect the royal family, not to fuck them.

Besides, at four and ten she was almost half his age, and Beron liked his women a little older than that.

Beron pretended to believe her. "Forgive me for asking, then."

She shrugged. "It's fine." The princess resumed her silent walking. "Ser Beron..." she said after a while. "Can I ask you something?"

"Of course, Your Grace."

"Do you..." She seemed to hesitate. "Do you like girls?"

Beron stopped in his tracks. "What?"

"I asked if you like girls."

He looked at the princess and noticed a hint of worry in her deep purple eyes. She must be wondering whether I'm a sword swallower.

"I...yes, Your Grace. I do like girls." He knew that if he lied, her attempts would stop. However, his pride wouldn't allow him.

The princess looked relieved. "And, if you don't mind me asking..."

_Gods, what else now?_

"...how do you deal with...well, with your needs?"

Beron's eyes widened. "Princess, I don't think it's something for your ears. And anyway, we should stop wasting time with idle chatters. You know the Septa doesn't like it when you are late for your lessons." He hoped that would be enough to deter the princess from further embarrassing topics.

"A minute or two late won't be a problem." she said, and Beron sighed. "And I hope my questions aren't annoying you, Ser Beron. It's just that I've always been curious about the world around me, and I would be very grateful if you answered truthfully. I hate it when people lie because they think they have to protect me from reality." Then, she added: "Of course, I won't tell anyone about it."

He took a moment to ponder on what to do. In the end, he choose to give her a not too detailed answer, hoping it would finally satisfy her.

"Most times I...I just do it by myself. And when the urge gets too strong...there are women willing to help, in exchange for coins." he said. "Our oath forbids us to marry and have children, not to f...to sleep with women." It was an open secret among the white swords that some of them were loyal patrons of the establishments that could be found along the Street of Silk. It wasn't exactly frowned upon, but neither it was openly allowed. His friend Daven Lannister called it a "don't ask, don't tell" policy.

The princess nodded at his words. "Thank you for answering, Ser Beron."

Beron breathed a silent sigh of relief. "We would better get going, now."

He escorted Princess Visenya to the Septa's room and stood guard outside of it. The next few hours went on uneventfully.

That is, until Ser Oswell arrived with news that shocked everybody's world...

**XXXXXX**

**Taken from "Fire and Blood: A comprehensive history of House Targaryen", by Archmaester Yandel of the Citadel**

**Chapter 18: The Bard King**

_...Lord Connington died right after his return at the Red Keep. Despite Grandmaester Pycelle's best efforts, his burns were too severe, and the voyage back had taken a heavy toll on him. However, before leaving to join his ancestors in the seven heavens, he managed to recount the events that had led to his hurried escape from a once again burning Summerhall..._

_...The three fossilized dragon eggs had been sent to King Rhaegar as a gift for the twentieth anniversary of his crowning, by an unknown source. Upon receiving them, the king closed himself in his chambers for an entire day, forbidding anyone from entering. When he came out, he seemed to be his normal self, but according to some rumors there was a strange light in his eyes..._

_...Aegon the Unlikely's death should have set a warning for his descendants. Unfortunately, King Rhaegar only partially heeded it. No other members of House Targaryen were at the castle that day. However, there were still a handful of workers taking care of the last stages of the reconstruction, a few servants and guards, Lord Commander Dayne, Lord Connington, and of course the king himself. In total, almost a hundred people. And all but one would die in the fire that destroyed Summerhall for the second time..._

_...There were no further attempts to rebuild Summerhall, and to this day it still stands as a blackened and empty shell of its former self. However, according to some whispers, the ghost of Ser Arthur still haunts the ruins of the castle, crying in silent shame for allowing the death of his king and best friend..._

_...King Rhaegar's actions are the only mistake of an otherwise flawless reign. A failed attempt to restore House Targaryen to its full might and glory by bringing dragons back into this world, they can easily be forgiven in light of the Bard King's many accomplishments; like the improved relationships with the ironborn, and the much celebrated canal linking the Mander river to the Blackwater, to name just a few._

_With the death of King Rhaegar, decades of peace and prosperity the likes of which hadn't been seen in Westeros since the time of Jaehaerys I came to an abrupt end, to be followed soon after by two short but bloody wars..._

_**AN: **__The king is dead, long live the king!_


	9. Minisa III

**Minisa III**

**Winterfell, 297 AC**

"...m'lady?"

Minisa's mind came back to reality after a moment or two of being lost in her thoughts. "I...forgive me, what were you saying?"

"I asked if you liked my prototype." The mason held up the small clay statue he was carrying and brought it closer to her. "There are just a few small details here and there that need to be defined, but the final result will basically be the same. I can make a new one, though, if you don't like it."

She looked at the object. It was a reproduction of her father's body and sword, something the mason had made just to give them a preview of what he was working on. House Stark's ancient customs dictated that, once the ruling lord died, a statue of him had to be placed upon his tomb in the crypts. Her mother had commissioned one right after the raven from the maester of Storm's End had arrived with its dreadful news.

_My lady, it pains me to inform you of your lord husband's passing..._

"Hmm..." She wasn't an expert, but she could tell that the mason had done a good job. The small statue resembled her father in every single detail, so much that it pained her heart to look at it. The mason had even included a draft of a direwolf, the beast's head resting on the statue's feet and a single eye looking threateningly at the world.

"It's really good. How much will it take you to finish it?"

"Little more than a week, m'lady. Just in time for the...for your lord father's return." he answered. "You don't have to worry, Lady Stark. I've been carving stones since the days of your lord grandfather, gods bless his soul, and nobody has ever complained about my work."

She nodded. Her mother and Lord Petyr had already left a few days ago for White Harbor, where her father's bones would soon arrive escorted by Uncle Ned and Aunt Lya. She would make sure to have everything ready in time for their return at Winterfell.

"Very well, I have nothing else to ask you. Just remember to keep me informed." she dismissed him.

The mason nodded. "Of course, Lady Stark." he said before bowing and leaving the solar.

_Lady Stark_. People other than her family had always called her that. However, now those words carried a completely different meaning, and she would have to get used to it as soon as possible.

Before, she was simply a great lord's daughter and heir. Now, her father was dead, and she was the Lady of Winterfell, with everything that role entailed. For now the actual ruling would be done by a regency council, but one day the responsibility would be entirely hers and Edwyle's. The thought of ruling scared her, but Minisa knew that there would always be people helping her. Her mother, her uncles. Edwyle, of course, both now and after their marriage. And Lord Petyr, too. Her mother's childhood friend had proven to be a very kind man and a comforting presence, and had offered to stay at Winterfell as long as they needed him. Her mother had promptly accepted, glad to have another familiar face to help her cope with the grief.

Gods knew how much they all needed help. Arya was too young to understand what was going on, but Berena and Alysanne weren't that lucky. Neither were the other inhabitants of the castle and of the winter town. It was as if a cloak of sadness had descended on them all. Her father had always garnered much love among his smallfolk, especially the women. The mourning would last for a long time.

Minisa had wept like never before at hearing the news, and a part of her didn't want to accept the new reality. Her father, that tall, bearded man that had always been a constant presence throughout all her life, was now dead. His many responsibilities hadn't allowed him to spend as much time with her as she would have liked, and sometimes, when something angered him, or when he had an argument with her mother, he had been a frightening sight to behold. But he was...had been her father, and Minisa had loved him with all of her heart.

She couldn't let him down by spending her days moping. Although now she wanted nothing more than lay on her bed, hug her pillow tight and cry all her pain on it, she had to be strong. She was a Stark of Winterfell, a wolf of the north. And wolves were anything but fragile little things. It wouldn't be easy, but she knew she could do it. She would do her best for her people.

And she would do something for Torrhen, too, she decided. Years ago she had promised to help him get a better life, and now that she was the Lady of Winterfell she had the power to do such a thing.

_I will make you proud of me, Father._

After leaving the solar, she briefly returned to her chambers, where the serving girls had prepared her a bath. Then, she went to the Great Hall for supper. It was mostly a sullen affair, but Uncle Bryn managed to make Minisa and her sisters smile a little by telling them a couple of funny stories about her mother's childhood at Riverrun.

And after that, her day ended. She wished her sisters and Uncle Bryn goodnight, and went back to her room, hoping to get a good night's sleep.

However, after she had changed into her nightgown and dismissed the serving girls, something happened. She was about to lay on her bed, when suddenly the candles that lit her room went out, and Minisa found herself surrounded by darkness.

She shrieked, then, a couple of deep breaths later, she calmed down. I mustn't panick. She wasn't a child anymore, there was nothing to be afraid of. She just had to call for someone, and the light would return.

A strange noise from her left caught her attention just when she was about to open her mouth. Minisa turned, and something heavy hit her on her head, making her loose consciousness.

She came to after a while. She blinked her eyes a few times and moaned. What had happened? Had she somehow tripped over something and hit her head somewhere? She made to move, only then realizing that her hands and feet were bound tightly by ropes. She also noticed she was in a dusty and small room, lit only by the flickering light of a tiny candle.

"What...where am I?" What kind of place was that? Why wasn't she in her room? A cold shiver went up her spine as a dark thought crept into her mind. What if she had been kidnapped?

"Where am I? Please, somebody...somebody answer me!"

Just then, the door to the room opened. Minisa held her breath as a dark shape appeared on the threshold. Was that her kidnapper?

"You're awake. About fucking time." Wait, what...she knew that voice. But...how could it be? He would never do such a thing. She must have misheard.

The dark shape stepped into the room, finally coming into view. Minisa gasped. No...it couldn't be...

"Torrhen?"

_**AN: **__What an inglorious bastard._


	10. Errol III

**Errol III**

**Storm's End, 297 AC**

"...and that's all." said Errol, walking alongside Maester Cressen, adapting his own pace at the older man's slower rhytm. Cressen could walk by himself most of the time, though sometimes the cane wasn't enough to support him, and so Errol had voluntereed to accompany him whenever he went. He couldn't risk another accident.

"Hmm..." mumbled the old man. "And you haven't spoken to each other since before you left for the Citadel?"

"Exactly, Maester."

Cressen furrowed his brow. "Well, that's...that's sad to hear. There shouldn't be such bad blood between father and son." Errol had never liked discussing his personal history, much less his relationship with his father. However, there was something in Cressen's voice and face that had prompted him to talk. In a way, he reminded Errol of Uncle Doran.

Growing up, whenever things with his father became sour, he had always found shelter in his uncle's solar. And whenever he hadn't been busy with matters of ruling, Uncle Doran had always provided a friendly ear and a warm smile that managed to put Errol at ease. And Maester Cressen was very similar in that regard to his uncle.

He also remembered that Uncle Doran had always looked older than he actually was, and concluded that by now, he would surely seem to be of an age with Cressen, though in truth he was almost thirty years younger.

"You are right, but what can I do? The past is the past." said Errol. "I can't undo it."

"That's true, the past is set in stone." conceded Cressen. "However, the future is yet to be determined." He paused. "Boy...are you willing to accept some advice from an old man?"

"Of course!" said Errol eagerly. From a wise and well-read man such as Cressen, there was only to learn. However, a moment later he regretted those words. He had realized what the old man wanted to tell him.

_Here comes another lecture_, his inner voice grumbled. _Just what we needed._

"You are the only one who can decide what is good for yourself. However, if I were you, I would try to reconcile with my father." he said, and Errol noticed a hint of sadness in his voice, almost as if he were longing for something long lost. "Before it's too late, else you will spend the rest of your life wallowing in regret."

Errol wondered whether Cressen was talking about himself, or him. Perhaps both. "Maester, did you..."

Before he could finish, he was interrupted by echoes of angry voices coming from somewhere beyond the corridor they were in. "Now, what..."

"It sounds like Lord Robert." theorized Cressen.

And in fact, he was right. For as soon as they rounded the corner, they arrived in the part of the castle where the lord's chambers were located. And standing on the threshold of his room, arguing animatedly with a young woman that Errol didn't immediately recognize, was Lord Robert himself.

"For fuck's sake, get out of here! I can walk perfectly fine by myself!"

"Like hells! You..." The woman turned as soon as she heard them arriving. It was Lady Argella, Lord Robert's younger sister. As tall as her brother, she was considerably gentler and easier to talk to. However, when she wanted she could be as stubborn as any true stag. Just like now, Errol supposed.

Lady Argella smiled in relief as she saw them. "Finally! Maester Cressen, please, talk some sense into my oaf of a brother!"

"If I am an oaf, then you are a..."

"My lord!" Errol stopped Lord Robert before he could say something that he might regret. "Please, there's no need to argue."

"Tell that to her!"

"What happened?" Cressen asked calmly.

"I just wanted to take a walk in the courtyard!" answered Lord Robert. "What's wrong with that?"

"You wanted to go riding, that's what!" Lady Argella was clearly concerned for her brother and annoyed by his behaviour. "You can barely walk, let alone ride a horse! Robert, you haven't fully recovered yet..."

"Nonsense! I am as fine as I ever was!"

So, that was the reason. Errol wasn't surprised. Lord Robert was an energetic man who never seemed to be happy with staying still for more than five minutes. He was also very fond of riding, a passion shared with his lady wife. For such a man, not being able to move as he pleased was the worst of torments.

"My lord, I understand your frustration." Cressen said soothingly. "However, this is one of those cases where one must exceed on the side of caution." Lord Robert's face darkened even more.

"Am I to spend the rest of my life on a bed, then?"

"Of course not, my lord. Your injuries were not as serious as your late goodbrother, but they still require time to heal."

"How much time?"

"A couple days, at most. I have to visit you in order to determine it. And I was going to do just that, when we arrived here."

Lord Robert grunted in exasperation, while Lady Argella merely smirked. "Fine! Do what you must." Errol was always surprised by how much sway Maester Cressen held over Lord Robert. He was like a second father to him, one of the few people who could rein in his temper and to whom Lord Robert actually listened.

"Very well. Now, if you would please go back to your bed..."

To Lord Robert's joy, Maester Cressen deemed him fit to resume his normal activities after just another day of rest. After that, Lady Argella gave Errol a letter and asked him to send it to Riverrun. She didn't tell him what it was about, but judging from her face Errol supposed it was for her bethrothed, Ser Edmure. He left the living quarters and went to the upper levels of the castle, to the rookery.

"Good boy." he said later as he tied the letter to the raven's feet. He had named it Nymor, and it was Errol's favorite raven, the only one who never cawed at him or tried to shit on his robes. Errol petted the raven's hair, and sent it on its way.

Strangely enough, the other ravens were quiet that day. They just stared at Errol as he checked their food and water.

As soon as he had finished with that, Errol heard a flapping of wings and a caw. He turned, and saw a new raven entering from one of the windows. The other ravens watched the newcomer suspiciously. Errol waited for the bird to stop on an empty roost and approached it. He had noticed a parchment tied to one of the raven's feet.

The royal sigil on the envelope made him raise an eyebrow. What could it be? There was only one way to find out.

Errol broke the sigil, unfolded the parchment, and began to read.

_**AN: **__I'm sure you're all wondering: "What the fuck happened between Errol and Oberyn?" And the answer is...I don't know. It's something that I added at the very last minute, without thinking too much about it. It's lazy on my part, I know. However, you can fill this blank with whatever theory you like._

_Anyway, what's the content of the mysterious letter? You'll find out in two weeks, of course. Meanwhile, feel free to tell me your thoughts._


	11. Beron III

**Beron III**

**King's Landing, 297 AC**

**The Red Keep**

_"All men know me for the trueborn son of King Rhaegar Targaryen, First of His Name, by his wife and queen Cersei of House Lannister. I declare upon the honour of my parents' Houses that the one currently sitting the Iron Throne is nothing more than an imposter born of the Blackfyre line, secretely put in my place right after my birth, while I was brought to far Essos by conspirators. Against all their hopes, I survived and learned of my heritage. Therefore, by right of birth and blood, I do this day demand that the Iron Throne of the Seven Kingdoms of Westeros be given back to me, and give the imposter and his cronies a fortnight to reconsider their actions and surrender peacefully. Let all true men declare their loyalty. Done in the sight of gods and men, under the sign and seal of Aegon of House Targaryen, the Sixth of His Name, King of the Andals, the Rhoynar, and the First Men, Lord of the Seven Kingdoms and Protector of the Realm."_

The Grand Maester stopped reading, and for a while silence fell on the chamber of the Small Council.

Beron took a brief look around, and couldn't help but notice how almost everyone wore the same expression of shock and disbelief. From King Aegon to the knights of the Kingsguard, they were all looking at Pycelle as if he had just sprouted a third arm out of his arse. Except for Lord Varys, who merely raised an eyebrow but otherwise remained impassive. He wasn't a real lord, the title being just a courtesy awarded to him. But he was a competent Master of Whispers, and had faithfully served the royal family since the early years of King Rhaegar's reign.

"What in seven hells is this?!" screamed Queen Cersei from her son's right, seething with rage. She was still wearing the black dress she had donned after King Rhaegar's death. It was plain for anyone to see that she truly missed her beloved husband. Her mourning would last long. "Is it some kind of sick joke?" King Aegon looked worriedly at his mother's outburst. He must have never seen her like that.

"Your Grace, the letter arrived this morning from Stag's Den. The local maester sent it soon after reading it."

"Where is Stag's Den, Grand Maester?" asked King Aegon. The young king had Targaryen eyes, but the rest was all Lannister.

"In the Stormlands, Your Grace, on Cape Wrath. Its lord is Stannis Baratheon, younger brother to the lord of Storm's End." answered the old man. "He is known as a serious and honest man. The possibilities of this being a cruel joke on his part are nonexistent."

The king nodded at Pycelle's words. "Then, what could it mean?"

"It must be the Blackfyres." said Ser Oswell. The new Lord Commander rested his hands on the table and grit his teeth. "Some of those vermins must have survived to this day." Ser Barristan Selmy had slain the last Blackfyre pretender in the War of the Ninepenny Kings. At least, that was what everybody thought. Beron had always suspected that at least one or two women from that accursed family had survived in hiding.

"If that is the case, why this...this folly?" Beron's father asked. "Do they really expect someone to believe it?"

"It is entirely possible that they have finally gone insane from desperation, after decades of plotting." surmised Lord Varys. "Henceforth, this letter."

"That must be the case, indeed." Lord Tywin agreed. "They must be desperate."

"Be it as it may be, we can't let this stand!" said the queen. "This imposter must be crushed like the vermin he is!" She squeezed her son's hand, and he looked embarrassed by the gesture. No doubt he didn't want to look like a frightened child who constantly needed his mother's reassurance that everything would be alright.

"Do we know anything about this imposter's whereabouts, or his forces?" Lord Tywin asked to Pycelle.

"The maester of Stag's Den mentioned a messanger coming from north-east. That must be where the imposter is. We must also assume that he has at the very least a few soldiers at his disposal."

"We must dispatch troops immediately!" The queen seemed to be getting angrier by the minute.

"Lord Stannis must have already taken adequate measures." said Pycelle. "And his brother is sure to follow suit. Soon, the might of the Stormlands will be upon this imposter."

"Nevertheless, we must do the same. We need to call all the banners of the Crownlands, and warn the nearby areas. As of yet, we don't know how many soldiers are currently with this imposter, or if more will come." the Lord Commander of the Kingsguard said. "Lord Varys, do you have any spies in the southern Stormlands?"

"My little birds are everywhere, Ser Oswell." calmly answered the eunuch. Beron wondered how he managed to always stay calm. _Must have something to do with not having balls._

"If they haven't sent me any information so far, they will surely do so..."

A knock at the door interrupted Lord Varys. Beron, being the closest, was sent to open it.

He found Ser Loras with a small parchment in his hand. "They told me to bring it to Pycelle." Beron let the young boy in, and soon after he handed the letter over to the Grand Maester.

"What is it, Grand Maester?" asked the king curiously.

"It must be something important, my king. Let me see..." The old man took a few moments to read the letter, and Beron saw his eyes widening. What was it, now?

"It's...it's a letter from Pyke, Your Grace. It would seem that a civil war just broke out on the Iron Islands..."

_**AN: **__Remember when I mentioned "two short but bloody wars"? Well, here they are! Stay tuned for the next chapter!_


	12. Gormon I

**Part 3: The dogs of war**

**Gormon I**

**Pyke, 297 AC**

The cup went flying through the air and crashed on the wall, splintering in a thousand tiny pieces and spilling its content on the stone. It was followed soon after by a stream of curses so vile that even a sailor would be put to shame.

Gormon watched all this and said nothing, even though he disliked curses and violence. By now, he was used to Lord Rodrik's fits of anger, and knew that the best way to endure them, was to just stay still and wait. It could take quite some time for quiet to return, for the Lord of Pyke had a fiery temper that was often exacerbated by the copious amounts of wine that he always drank, and on those days only his lady wife's pleading voice managed to calm him.

Luckily, this time it took only a few moments for Lord Rodrik to calm down. He paced around his desk like an enraged bull, then finally sitting heavily on his chair. He clenched his fists and grit his teeth, took a couple of deep breaths, then looked at Gormon, who had silently breathed a small sigh of relief. "Read it again. The last lines, I mean."

Gormon opened again the parchment that had caused his lord's previous outburst, cleared his voice and began to read. "What else is there to be said? The two of them look too much alike for it to be a mere coincidence. It's not unreasonable to think that Lady Alannis was too close to her goodbrother Victarion in the early years of her marriage..."

Lord Rodrik swore again and banged his fist on the desk, causing Gormon to stop reading. He felt a pang of fear slowly creep into his heart as he hurriedly put the letter into one of his pockets. He had never seen Lord Rodrik in such a state, and there was no telling what he could do. Gormon just hoped he wouldn't choose to vent his rage on him.

"That...that swine!" he growled. "How dare he...how...THAT SWINE! MY OWN BROTHER!" Gormon could almost see the veins bulging on Lord Greyjoy's neck. "How dare he accuse our...my mother and my uncle of this?!"

Gormon didn't know what to answer. The eldest Greyjoy siblings hadn't always seen eye to eye on everything, and in later years they had basically become strangers to each other. But to accuse one's elder brother of being a bastard...that was one of the vilest actions conceivable.

"My lord...sometimes greed does bad things to the hearts of men." It wasn't the first time in history that someone had tried to slander their kin's legitimacy with lies in order to inherit their lands and titles. The Blackfyres were the most notorious example, with many more in the distant past. Even his own House had had a few cases.

Lord Rodrik nodded at his words. "Perhaps you are right, greenlander." he said, his voice still full of rage and contempt. "Old Wyk must not have been enough for Maron." He tapped his fingers on the desk.

"My lord, if I may..." Gormon said cautiously. "Your lady mother is well known around the islands, just like your late uncle. Everybody knows that they...they would never have done something like this. Nobody will believe your brother's accusations."

"My grandfather used to say that the world is full of idiots who will believe anything." said Lord Rodrik. "There are still far too many of my bannermen who despise his reforms, and most of them are on Old Wyk." By his tone, Gormon guessed that Lord Rodrik was regretting assigning Old Wyk to his brother. "The Old Way isn't dead yet, as much as Grandfather would have liked it."

Gormon realized what Lord Rodrik meant. Even if the...more traditionalist ironborn didn't actually believe Lord Maron's claims, they would pretend to in order to have an excuse to try to overthrow their rightful liege and return to their ancient customs. And if that happened...

"Do you want to send guards to arrest Lord Maron?"

Lord Rodrik pondered on those words and stroke his beard. "That would be the right thing to do, but...what would happen, then? This could lead to war. And I promised Grandfather on his deathbed that I would never let that happen."

Gormon recognized that Lord Rodrik was right. If something went wrong, the Iron Islands would soon be ravaged by the first civil war since before the arrival of the Targaryens. They had to be extremely cautious.

"You could always send a few men under a peace banner and ask your brother to come here and explain his actions."

His liege furrowed his brow. "That wouldn't work. Maron is far from stupid." He grunted. "For fuck's sake, whatever did I ever do wrong to deserve this?" Then he muttered a few colorfoul curses that Gormon had never heard. He silently sighed. _Did they really have to send me here, of all places?_

A few moments later, Lord Greyjoy banged both his fists on the desk. "I will have Cerenna and Dagon sent to Lannisport to visit her kin. If worst comes to worst, at least they will be safe." Then, he added: "About Maron...fuck, I don't know what to do!"

Gormon had an idea. "My lord, you could arrange a meeting on a neutral ground, giving your brother a chance to explain his actions. This way you may be able to settle things peacefully."

Lord Rodrik snorted. "Explain his actions..." He shook his head. "As much as I hate it...very well, Maester. Start writing a letter."

Gormon did as he was told. For a few days, nothing happened, and everybody on Pyke held their breath as they waited for an answer from Old Wyk.

Then the answer arrived, and everything changed. Ravens started flying in all directions, and armed men suddenly appeared everywhere, their faces grim and their hands firmly on their weapons.

Gormon dreaded what was to come. For anything that he had imagined would happen, he had never thought he would find himself involved in a civil war.

_**AN: **__Yes, this is Mace's uncle. And yes, I know that this Rodrik Greyjoy is kinda different from what we know about his canon self. However, remember that this is an AU. And anyway, anything will be explained._

_Meanwhile, I'd like to hear your thought on the story so far. Is it good? Does it suck? Is there something that could be improved? Please, let me know._


	13. Omake

**Omake: Strange encounters**

**Duskendale, 277 AC**

**Somewhere in the Dun Fort**

It was an unusually quiet and moonless night. The army camped outside the city walls waited for something to happen. Most of the people inside the city walls just slept, while others made plans to escape should something bad happen (how wise of them, in hindsight!). Lord Denys Darklyn was happily fucking his lady wife, his mind overjoyed at the thought of all the good that would come to his city after this whole thing was done (had he been able to somehow take a glance at the future, he wouldn't have been so happy). And, in a barely lit corridor of the Dun Fort, two people that shouldn't have been there were trying to find a way to escape.

"Selmy, are you sure this is the right way?" asked King Aerys II worriedly. He was grateful for his kingsguard's rescue attempt, but he was beginning to have doubts about his sense of direction. They had been strolling around for quite some time, and they yet had to leave the castle.

"Of course, Your Grace. I'm just taking a slightly different route so that there'll be less chances of a guard finding us. Don't worry. We will be out of here in no time." answered Barristan with more confidence than he actually felt. In truth, he wasn't sure where in seven hells they were actually going. That wasn't the path he had taken when he had managed to sneak into the castle. In fact, he couldn't remember which way he had come. _Godsdamnit, why did I have to be born with such a shitty sense of direction?_ However, he couldn't tell that to his king. He had to at least pretend to know what he was doing. And he was sure that, sooner or later, they would find an exit.

"Hmm...I hope you are right. I already spent way too much time in this accursed castle!" the king said angrily. "I swear, once I'm out of here, I shall make Darklyn pay for his insolence! I shall make a giant BBQ out of his city!"

"What's a BBQ, Your Grace?"

"I don't know, the word just popped into my mind."

They turned a corner, and Barristan recognized this part of the castle. He had already passed through there on his way to the king's cell! That could only mean that the exit was near. _About fucking time!_

But soon after that thought, something happened that caused both he and the king to stop in their tracks. A strange noise filled the air, and slowly, a giant blue box appeared right in front of them seemingly out of nowhere.

"What the..." said the king as Barristan examined the box. It seemed to have some kind of door in the front, and there were some carvings in a strange language very similar to the Common Tongue. And strange it was, indeed. What was a "police"?

Suddenly, the door swung open, and a very old man wearing torn and bloodied rags came out. Barristan was able to take a glance at the interior of the box, and noticed that it seemed to be...a huge hall? How could it be? Was it some kind of magic? Was that man a warlock?

He never found out, for as soon as that man appeared, another one followed. This one was taller and considerably younger than the first man. He was wearing a black robe and in his right hand held some kind of strange metal tube.

"Resistance is futile." said the newcomer, and then aimed his metal tube at the other man's head. A booming noise was heard, and the old man's head disappeared in a cloud of blood and organic matter.

Barristan's heart was racing. What in seven hells was going on? Who was that strange man? Did he mean to harm him and King Aerys? He stepped in front of the king and held his sword tightly.

The strange man looked at them. "Now, if the two of you wish to live, tell me where I can find Sarah Connor."

Barristan gulped as he heard the king gasp behind his back. "I don't know who you are or what you want, and I sure as hells don't know who this "Sarah Connor" is supposed to be." he said trying to be intimidating, and hoping that the newcomer wouldn't notice the fear in his voice or the trembling in his legs. Or the stain of piss that was slowly forming on his pants.

The strange man looked at Barristan, then at the king, and then at the corridor they were in. "Oh...sorry, wrong universe." He went back into the box and closed the door, and just like that, the box disappeared.

Barristan and the king were left alone in the corridor, at first too dumbstruck to say anything.

"What in seven fucking hells did just happen?"

"I...I have no idea, Your Grace. But we'd better get going, before someone finds us."

And almost as if his words had magically summoned them, two guards wearing Darklyn colors soon appeared. "THERE THEY ARE!"

Barristan cursed and prepared himself for the fight of his life. "STAY BEHIND ME, YOUR GRACE!"

_**AN: **__In case you're wondering, I wrote this while I was drunk. Or high. Or both, I don't quite remember. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed it. Stay tuned for Cersei's interlude!_


	14. Interlude II

**Interlude II: The crowned lioness**

**Lannisport, 276 AC**

The iron dagger pierced the skin of her thumb, drawing a few drops of blood that seemed more black than red. Cersei didn't cry, didn't even flinch. She was a Lannister, a lioness of the Rock. And lions didn't make a fuss over a little prick on the finger. Not like Melara, who after Cersei was done with her held her finger as if she was afraid it would run away. Although, she had to admit that at least, Melara had had the courage to stay. Stupid Jeyne had fled as soon as she had seen the old hag's eyes.

"Give it here." said Maggy the Frog, and soon after, she sucked away Cersei and Melara's blood. Her mouth was queer and cold, and Cersei saw her friend flinch and hurriedly clean her finger on her dress.

The old woman sat on her bed. "Three questions may you ask." she said, her eyes fixed on Cersei. "You might not like my answers. Ask, or begone with you."

Cersei frowned at her insolent tone, but answered quickly. She already knew what to ask the old hag. "When will I wed the prince?" Her aunt had already assured her that Cersei's bethrothal to Prince Rhaegar would be announced at the end of the tourney. She just wanted to know when the marriage would happen.

"Never. You will wed the king."

Her face wrinkled up in puzzlement. What did she mean? Surely her lord father couldn't mean to have her marry King Aerys. He was too old, and already married. But perhaps...perhaps this meant that she would marry Rhaegar after his father's death, once he was king. How many years would she have to wait for, then?

"I will be queen, though?"

"Aye. Queen you shall be...until there comes another, younger and more beautiful, who shall take your place."

Cersei's mind was whirling with questions. A younger and more beautiful queen? Who could it be? Her son's wife? Her daughter? An usurper? She would have asked all this and more. But she remembered that she had just one question left. So, she thought carefully about what she was going to say. "Will the king and I have children?"

"Oh, aye. Three children you and the king shall have. Gold shall be their crowns, purple and green their eyes. Your pride and joy they shall be."

Cersei smiled. If what the crone said was true, then a bright future awaited her. Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, with the power to command anything and anyone. Married to the most handsome man she had ever seen. And mother to three wonderful children! What else could she ask for?

Her smile disappeared as soon as the old hag spoke again. "But one by one, your joys shall leave you. Grief shall fill your heart, and tears your eyes." And then, she stopped and just stared at Cersei and Melara.

Cersei didn't like what she had just said. "What do you mean with that?" she said angrily.

Maggy the Frog just smirked. "I told you that you might not like my answers, child. And you already asked your questions."

Before Cersei could say or do anything, Melara took a step forward. "Will I marry Jaime?"

If looks could kill, Melara would have fallen dead right on the spot. _You stupid girl. Jaime does not even know you are alive. He would never marry you._

Or would he? Perhaps her father was planning a bethrothal for Jaime, too. But would he actually choose Melara? Doubt began to creep into her.

"Not him, little one. The lion cub is not for you." said Maggy. "Your fate is bound to a man with salt and iron in his blood..."

**XXXXXX**

**Harrenhal, 282 AC**

Hundreds of eyes stared as the King made his way over to the altars of the Father and the Mother. Most were filled with genuine happiness for the wedding. All of the young maidens, though, looked in envy at the proceedings, wishing to be in the place of the bride.

Cersei basked in their envy, and beamed with pure joy. _Bugger them. Let them stare. Let them grit their teeth and gnaw their liver. Let them whisper, and dream about what could have been._ This was her moment, the happiest day in her life. _If only you could see me now, Mother._

In just a few moments, she would be Queen of the Seven Kingdoms, wife to King Rhaegar. What she had been dreaming since she was a child would finally happen. Maggy the Frog's prophecy had come true.

That thought sent a cold chill down her spine as she remembered what else the crone had said.

_But one by one, your joys shall leave you._

Cersei was determined to not let that happen. She would be the best queen ever, and protect her children at all costs. Nobody would ever harm them. Bugger whatever the spiteful old hag had said. Yes, bugger that. The future wasn't set in stone. She would show everyone how a lioness took care of her family.

Her eyes then went to her father, who was standing right next to her, an unusual smile on his face. _Bugger you, King Aerys. You thought I wasn't good enough for your son? Well, he doesn't seem to think so. _She looked at the rest of her family, standing in the aisles. She briefly glanced at Tyrion, and thought happily about how rarely she would see him now._ Bugger you, you disgusting imp_. Then her stare rested on Jaime, who reacted with an embarrassed half-smile. _And bugger you too, Jaime._ In just a few moments she would have the whole realm at her command. Her brother, her other half, was now useless to her. Let him enjoy the Rock and his big-titted Tyrell bethrothed. What was Jaime, compared to Rhaegar? Nothing.

Rhaegar reached the altars. The High Septon started to speak, and Cersei smiled. _He is so handsome_. Rhaegar looked at her, and smiled in return. Vows were made, blessing were invocated, and promises were exchanged. She snorted to herself and wondered why wedding cerimonies had to be so boringly long.

Then her father took her maiden cloak off, and Cersi held her breath as Rhaegar put the new cloak on her shoulders. Her heart was beating faster than ever.

"With this kiss, I pledge my love, and take you for my lady and wife."

Cersei was quick to answer. "With this kiss, I pledge my love, and take you for my lord and husband." Their lips met, and it was the most wonderful thing she had ever felt.

And finally, the High Septon declared them husband and wife. "One flesh, one heart, one soul, now and forever."

Everybody applauded at that, the sound echoing for a while in the huge room. When it finally subsided, she smiled triumphantly and looked at the crowd.

_Behold your new queen._

**XXXXXX**

**The Red Keep, 289 AC**

Her cries of pain filled the air as maidservants scurried around and the Grand Maester looked between her widespread legs.

"It's almost done, Your Grace." said the old man reassuringly. "Just one more push."

_It's easy for you to talk, you grey-robed bastard._ She clenched her teeth and repressed the urge to scream. She had never felt so much pain, not even while giving birth to Visenya and Aegon. This delivery was proving to be much more difficult than everybody had thought.

Cersei's mind was by now a whirlwind of worry and fear. Fear for herself, and her child. Many women didn't survive childbirth. The example of her own mother was still fresh in her memory. What would happen if she died to deliver her third child? What if both she and the child died?

How would Rhaegar, Visenya and Aegon react to that?

_No, I can't let this happen! _She steeled herself and pushed with all her might. I'm the Queen of Westeros. _I'm a lioness of the Rock. I'm the mother of dragons. And I'm not going to die like this!_

"Yes, Your Grace, like this...I can almost see the head!" Pycelle shouted excitedly. He turned to one of the maidservants. "Fresh rags, at once! And burn the old ones, they're useless now!"

Cersei closed her eyes and muttered a prayer to the Mother Above, something she had seldom done in her life. _Please, have mercy. If not for me, at least for my child._ She had never truly believed in the Seven, but she supposed it was worth a try.

To her immense relief, it seemed that the Mother had indeed been listening to her words. A few moments later, she screamed like a wounded eagle as her third child came into the world. She almost lost consciousness and started panting heavily, as people around her hurried at Pycelle's orders.

She was exhausted, and would undoubtedly have to spend the next few days in bed. But she was alive.

"It's a girl, Your Grace. A healthy baby girl." Pycelle said after a while, handing her a bundle of rags. Cersei took it and looked at her daughter.

She felt her heart swell with pride as tears of joy ran from her eyes. My girl. Her newborn child didn't look like much, but she knew that in time she would grow to be as beautiful as her older sister and her mother. "Rhaenys." she whispered. She and Rhaegar had already agreed upon a name. If she had birthed a son, they would have called him Daeron. She realized only now that their children bore the same names as the Conqueror and his sister-wives. Cersei smiled at the thought. Her children had the blood of the dragon and the lion. They would do great things.

Then Rhaegar barged in, and took little Rhaenys in his arms. He seemed to be beside himself with joy, so much that when he spoke, his mouth produced an incohomprehensible mess of words. Did he actually say "my third head"? Cersei wasn't sure. She must have misheard him.

He gave her Rhaenys back, and placed a kiss on Cersei's forehead. "My love, you have just made me the happiest man alive."

She looked at her husband, her king, with nothing but love. "You do...the same for me...every day." she muttered weakly. It was the truth. She couldn't have asked for a better husband.

A few minutes later, Pycelle ushered Rhaegar out. The Grand Maester and the maidservants stayed with her until they were assured that she wasn't going to die. And finally, she was left alone with her daughter. She held her in her arms as she sang a lullaby she had learned from her mother.

They fell asleep at the same time.

**XXXXXX**

**Dragonstone, 297 AC**

"We are ready to sail, Your Grace." said the captain of the ship, a dragonseed whose name she had never bothered to learn.

Cersei nodded at the man's words. "I want to be in the capital as soon as possible." she replied, as sullen as she had ever been, and as the captain bowed she retreated to her cabin.

She was alone in there, having left her son, Clegane and her two ladies in waiting in their own cabins. She needed to stay alone for at least a little while.

In the silence that filled the room, she made her way to the bed and lay on it. Then she hugged her pillow tight, and her sobs soon replaced the silence.

Of all the things that she could have imagined, Cersei would never have thought that she would become a widow after just fifteen years of marriage. And in such a way! Had Rhaegar died in battle, she would have been less shocked.

What was he hoping to do at Summerhall? Had he learned nothing from his ancestor? Did he really think there was a way to bring dragons back into the world? Had he...had he actually stopped to think on what would happen if something went wrong?

Had he even cared about how his eventual death would affect his wife and their children?

Clearly, he cared only about the dragons, a small part of her thought bitterly. How selfish of him. And yet, she found she couldn't hate him for that. What would she have done, in his place? Wouldn't she try anything in her power to restore her House to its rightful glory?

She had no clear answer to that. All she could think about, were Rhaegar and all the happy moments they had shared over the years.

Rhaegar kissing her in the sept at Harrenhal, the day of their wedding. His eyes shining with pure joy as he looked at their children. His strong arms holding her after they had made love. His beautiful voice as he sang and played the harp.

_But one by one, your joys shall leave you._

She remembered those words all of a sudden and felt a pang of fear. The old bitch had been right so far, which could only mean one thing...

_No! I won't let that happen! Prophecies be damned, nobody will take my children from me!_ She clenched her fists as she swore to herself to never leave her children alone. To keep them far from any danger. She may heve lost her love, but she wouldn't loose her children. Whatever it would take, she would see them grow and live their lives.

This she swore, by the gods old and new.

_**AN: **__And here it is, I hope you liked it. See you in two weeks with the next chapter!_


	15. Minisa IV

**Minisa IV**

**Somewhere in the North, 298 AC**

The raven had come to visit her again.

She was sitting alone near a river, holding her knees to her chest and humming a lullaby that Old Nan used to sing her when she was a child. The air was cold, and the only sound that could be heard aside from her breathing was the running water.

The black bird landed near her and cawed.

Minisa glanced at it from the corner of her eye. "I'm sorry, I have nothing to feed you." she sighed. Just like the other times. Whenever the raven came, she would utter the exact same words. Why then did it keep on coming? Perhaps it somehow enjoyed her company?

"I'm not looking for food, child." someone suddenly said, startling Minisa. She looked around for the source of the voice, but the only ones present in the area were herself...and the raven.

"It was me, yes."

She looked at the bird with wide eyes. How could it be? She knew that ravens were very intelligent birds and that, in a few cases, could be taught to repeat human words, but nobody had ever heard of a raven that could actually speak like a human.

"I understand that my features may be...confusing, but I can assure you that I'm no ordinary raven."

Minisa gulped. What was happening? Was this some kind of foul sorcery?

"I mean you no harm."

Those words did nothing to set her at ease. In fact, they scared her even more. "What...what do you want from me?" She prepared herself to run at the first sign of danger.

"I just want to help you." answered the raven. "I sense that you don't trust me. I can understand that. Were I in your place, I would do the same."

"Why would you want to help me?"

"The why doesn't matter. The how, on the other hand...that matters, indeed."

"What do you mean, the how?" None of what the raven was saying made sense to Minisa. What if it was just trying to lure her into some kind of trap?

"I want to set you free. To help you fly."

"Fly?" Now she was sure of something. That bird was insane. How could it expect her to fly? She didn't have any wings!

"Yes, fly. But to do that, you must first open your eyes."

Minisa stared at the raven. Her eyes were already open! Couldn't the raven see that?

"I mean your real eyes, Minisa. Open them."

"My real eyes? What...wait, how do you know my name?" She was certain she had never told the bird.

"Open them!"

Suddenly, the world around her vanished. Minisa's eyes snapped open. She saw the stone ceiling above her, the candle on a nearby chair, and a rusty bucket.

There was no river, no strange raven. It had just been a dream. Another of the strange, confusing dreams that she had been having lately.

She rose to sit on the filthy straw that had been her bed for the last few days. Or had it been weeks? A month, perhaps? She had lost count of the passing of time. She didn't know where she was, didn't know why she was there.

She didn't know why he had kidnapped her.

When she thought about it, she still couldn't believe it. Torrhen, her bastard brother, had taken her from her home and brought her gods knew where. Why? What did he want with her?

She remembered the first time her father had brought Torrhen to Winterfell. How angry her mother had been, that day! She remembered watching Torrhen spar with Uncle Bryn, and later playing with her. She remembered a kind boy with a warm smile.

What had happened to that boy?

The only thing that came to her mind was the one thing her mother had always warned her: greed. Torrhen wanted Winterfell. But how...no, there had to be another explanation. Torrhen had always denied any intention of usurping his trueborn sisters' inheritance. Minisa trusted her brother's word. What reason did he have to lie?

But then, why was she in that room?

Maybe...someone had threatened Torrhen, forcing him to kidnap her? But who? And...wait, what if he was under some kind of spell? Yes, that could be it! Someone must have used magic to enthrall Torrhen and convince him to do what he had done. Some Essosi warlock, perhaps in service to an enemy of House Stark? It was a logical explanation.

This also meant that, whatever spell Torrhen was under, it could be undone. Something similar happened in many of Old Nan's stories. The hero found a way to break the spell, and then he defeated the evil warlock.

She could try to do the same to Torrhen. But how?

Just when she was thinking of a way, the door to her prison opened.

It was Torrhen.

"I brought you some food." he said, placing a plate with some bread and what looked to be meat on the chair with the candle. "Can't have you starving, after all."

A spark of hope lightened into Minisa. This was her chance to undo the spell and bring back the Torrhen she knew and loved! "Brother, I know this isn't your fault."

He raised an eyebrow. "What are you blabbering about?"

"I just understood what happened to you. You kidnapped me because you are under some kind of spell." she said. "You can fight it, Torrhen. Use your strength to oppose it, and then we will be both out of here."

For a moment, Torrhen just looked at her. Then, he threw his head back and laughed, the sound echoing in the small room.

He stopped a while later and shook his head. "Gods, you really are more stupid than I thought!"

Minisa didn't understand.

"I have news for you, sister dearest." Torrhen said in what was unmistakingly a mocking tone. He knelt close to her and looked straight into her eyes. "This isn't a tale about gallant knights slaying monsters. Neither it is one of those stupid songs that you girls like so much. This is reality." He leaned in closer, so much that Minisa could smell his breath. And it wasn't pleasant.

"I didn't kidnap you because I was "under a spell", you stupid cow. I did it because I want what is mine by rights!" Then, so suddenly that Minisa barely had time to realize what was happening, he punched her in the stomach, so hard that she was knocked backward and hit the stone floor with her head.

She moaned in pain and raised her gaze. Torrhen grabbed her by the neck and held her against the wall.

"I am Father's only son. Winterfell should be mine!"

Minisa could scarcely believe her own ears. Torrhen...wanted Winterfell? But then...her mother had been right all along? No, it couldn't be.

"But you...you are..."

"A bastard? Ha! It may be, but I am of pure northern stock! While you...did you really think that the North would follow a half-southron shit like you or cousin Edwyle?"

While it was true that the northmen didn't have a particularly high opinion of their southern neighbors, they didn't hate them. Everyone had always treated her mother with nothing but respect. And although she was half southron, she was her father's daughter. The heir to House Stark of Winterfell. The northern lords would never dare to hurt her just because her mother was a southron.

Or would they? A small part of her was beginning to have doubts. What if Torrhen's words were true? What if he really wanted to...no, it couldn't be.

"Torrhen...please, I'm your sister...you are hurting me..." She hoped those words would be enough to bring him back to normal.

Alas, it didn't happen.

"You can't even begin to imagine how much I hate you..." he whispered. "You and your sisters always got the best that Father could give you, while I got the scraps. All those years spent pretending to love you and be a good brother...there were times when I wanted nothing more than to cut your throats and watch you bleed!"

For the first time in her young life, Minisa looked at her brother with fear in her eyes.

"Don't worry, though, I'm not going to kill you. As much as I would love it." he chuckled. "I've been advised to keep you as a hostage until your mother accepts my demands. Then, you will all go back to the south. And the North will have a proper ruler once again!" He punched her again, and let go of her neck. She fell to the ground with a cry of pain that made Torrhen laugh.

"I have to go now. See you soon, sister dearest." He left without even glancing at her. When the door was slammed shut, it produced a gust of air that turned the candle's light off.

Minisa was left alone in the dark, with only her sobs and cries of pain to break the silence.

_**AN: **__Poor Minisa. Such a sweet, naive girl in such a cruel world. Not that Torrhen is much different. He too is naive. What do I mean? Don't worry, you'll find out soon._

_Next chapter we'll go back south to Storm's End. War is on the horizon! Someone will die. And after that, a new POV character. Stay tuned!_


	16. Errol IV

**Errol IV**

**Storm's End, 298 AC**

Ever since the letter of the self-proclaimed "real Aegon VI" had arrived, life had changed dramatically for the inhabitants of Storm's End. Ravens came and left at a constant rhytm, men spent most of their days training for battle, and provisions were stocked in case things took a turn for the worst and a siege began.

It wasn't a happy time, and Errol dreaded every single minute of it. However, at least he could be glad of the fact that his inner voice had been silent for a while now. He was growing increasingly tired of that nagging idiot inside of his own head.

Lord Robert, by now fully healed from his hunting wounds, had already called all his banners. As soon as everything was ready, his host would march toward Cape Wrath. The local lords didn't have enough strength to annihilate the invaders, whose numbers were larger than everyone had thought at first. The best they could do, was hold them long enough for reinforcements to arrive. Lord Stannis had already assembled a host of his own to face the enemy troops. As he wrote to his brother, he had no intention of letting an imposter take his home. Everyone hoped for the best as they waited for news about the battle. Then a ship with refugees and news from Stag's Den arrived, and the mood changed.

Lord Stannis had fallen, and Stag's Den with him.

Lord Robert didn't take the news well, as one could well expect. Neither did Lady Argella and Lady Cassana, or Ser Renly. And neither Maester Cressen, to whom Lord Stannis had been like a son. Errol had met Stannis Baratheon only once since his arrival to Storm's End, but it had been such a brief encounter that he still didn't have an opinion on him. He could only share the others' grief by giving sympathetic words and lending a friendly ear when they needed someone to talk to. He had always been a good listener.

Among the refugees, were Lord Stannis' wife and children. Lord Robert personally came to greet them as soon as they entered his halls.

"Lysa..." he said, hugging his goodsister. Lady Lysa was a thin and delicate woman, and she looked even more fragile between her goodbrother's massive arms. Her children followed her closely. Errol couldn't help but notice their weary appearance and red eyes, and felt sorry for them.

"Robert." Lady Lysa just said, before bursting into tears. "Gods, I...he..." she sobbed. "Why..."

"Hush, Lysa, you are safe now." Lord Robert stroke her auburn air. "And don't worry about anything. You will all stay here with us as long as it's needed. And I swear..." he said, looking straight into her eyes. "I shall crush those vermin that killed your husband. I shall make them crawl back to the cesspit they came from, and I shall give them no mercy!" Then he added, a little louder: "My brother shall be avenged!"

The following days, Lord Robert began to spend even more time in the training yard with his soldiers. He seemed to be in a state of constant, barely restrained rage, and he put so much effort in what he did that Errol had to always stand ready nearby to tend to the soldiers' wounds. He knew that this was Lord Robert's way of coping with the grief over his brother's death. Cressen had told him that he had done the same after his father's death, five years before Errol's arrival.

Errol hoped to never find himself on the receiving end of Lord Robert's fury, and almost felt a pang of pity for the invaders.

Finally, a few days later, arrived the moment that everybody had been waiting for.

The host was ready.

Lord Robert wasted no time. He donned his armor, including an helmet with some realistic-looking antlers, and only a warhammer as a weapon. When he saw it, Errol wondered how in seven hells he was able to lift such a huge thing.

Before leaving, Lord Robert spent some time with his family, and confirmed his brother Ser Renly as temporary castellan. With Ser Eddard still in the North helping with the search for his missing niece, someone had to fill that role. Errol had always thought the younger Baratheon to be too frivolous, what with his easy smile and his love for tourneys. However, so far he had proven that he could also be quite serious when he put himself to it.

And then, the Lord of Storm's End departed with his men. Errol watched them from a window. What an impressive sight they made! The soldiers with their weapons and horses, and the black and yellow banners proudly flapping in the wind.

He prayed they would all come back victorious.

_**AN: **__Hope you liked it. See you in two weeks for the new POV character!_


	17. Tygett I

**Tygett I**

**Somewhere in the Crownlands, 298 AC**

Another day of marching went by, and the men made up camp for the night. Before going to sleep, most of them sat in front of a fire with their comrades, filling their bellies and sharing lewd stories. If he concentrated amidst the cacophony, he could make out something of what they were saying. In the distance, he heard someone sing "The bear and the maiden fair", one of his favorite songs. Someone else, a green boy judging by the voice, expressed his enthusiasm for the upcoming battles and his desire to seek glory on the field. Tygett pitied the young fool. Green, stupid boys like that one always died first, in his experience.

"I hope this ends soon." said Prince Viserys with a frown. "I didn't think marching would be so tiring."

"We aren't out of the Crownlands yet, Your Grace." said Tygett patiently. "I would advise you to wait at least until we are deep into the Stormlands, to complain about being tired."

The Prince of Summerhall grunted. "Please, don't remind me for how long we still have to march, Ser Tygett." he said, with a tone that suggested he would rather be somewhere else.

Tygett couldn't blame the prince for feeling like that. He wasn't used to all that fatigue, riding a horse for hours on end. He also looked out of place among the soldiers. In fact, he could safely say that the prince wasn't cut out for military life. He had taught him swordsmanship since he was a child, and he had to admit that he could be very good when he put himself to it. However, he had also since long understood that the prince was better suited for calmer tasks. Had his late brother not interfered, Viserys could have left the Red Keep for the Citadel, and perhaps he would be a happier man by now.

Alas, things didn't always go according to one's wish, and so here they were.

"Anyway, there were a few things I wanted to discuss with you, Your Grace..."

"Is it urgent?" Viserys interrupted him.

"Well, no, but..."

"Then it can wait until the morrow. My rear is sore from the saddle, and I need to sleep. Good night, Ser Tygett." And with that, the prince abruptly stalked off to his tent.

Tygett sighed and shook his head. The Targaryen prince could be annoying at times, like some kind of petulant, overgrown child, but Tygett was used to it. He knew the prince wasn't a bad person, just a flawed one. Who also needed a good advisor. And luckily, Tygett was there to do just that. Prince Viserys may be nominally in charge of the crownlander army, but he would have to turn to his master at arms for advice on anything military related. He was the one with actual combat experience, after all.

And unlike the young men in his host, Tygett knew what to expect from a war. Blood, sweat, and tears. Not glory, unless one managed to survive. Which Tygett had every intention of doing. His once golden hair was streaked with grey, and he absolutely wanted to reach an age when it would be completely white. He would do his best to come out of this war alive. And if he somehow managed to obtain even just a little glory, all the better. He would get further away from Tywin's shadow.

However, for now he would just have to follow in the prince's footsteps and go to sleep. He went to his own tent, and as soon as he entered, he found his son lying on his own bed. He had to be either asleep or deep in thought, for he didn't notice Tygett's presence until he loudly called his name.

"Tyrek!"

His son jolted as if struck by lightning and sat up on the bed. He looked at him and blinked twice, as if to ascertain that he was really there. "Father..." he said. "I didn't hear you coming."

"Were you sleeping?"

"No, I was...I was thinking." Tygett noticed something wrong about his son. He was avoiding his gaze, almost as if he was afraid to look at him. And there was a note of embarrassment in his voice. But why? He hadn't been caught doing something that he shouldn't.

"Is there something wrong, son?" he asked worriedly. Perhaps he wasn't feeling well?

"No, Father." Tyrek answered, and his cheeks became blood red. Now, Tygett was certain that his son was hiding something.

"Tyrek..." he said, taking a nearby stool and sitting right in front of his son. "What is it? And don't lie to me. I'm not so old as to have lost my wits."

Tyrek hesitated for a moment. Then, Tygett's stern gaze finally seemed to convince him to talk. "Well, I was...I was thinking about what's to come. The battles, I mean."

"And?" Tygett had a growing suspicion about what his son was going to say.

"And..." He said, his voice as feeble as a whisper. "Father, I'm scared."

_Just like I thought. It's his first time on a real battlefield, after all. _"Let me guess, you were afraid to tell me?"

Tyrek just nodded.

"Son, how many times did I tell you? If you have a problem, come to me and I will help you."

"I know, Father, it's just that...I...I didn't want to disappoint you."

Tygett raised an eyebrow at that. "Why would I be disappointed in you?"

His son didn't answer soon. "Well...you are a great, strong warrior. I thought you would be ashamed of having a craven for a son." He lowered his head and muttered: "I'm sorry, Father."

Tygett sighed. He had known that this would happen, sooner or later. And he needed to do something about it. It was part of his duty as a father.

"Son, did I ever tell you about my first battle?"

Tyrek looked at him. "I remember you vaguely talking about it, but not in too much detail."

"Well, it's about time I did that." Tygett collected his thoughts, then continued. "I was younger than you when I first went to war and killed a man. Ten. Not old enough to shave, and yet I went to the Stepstones with my brothers and the rest of the army.

"And you know what? I was scared, just like you. That feeling accompanied me throughout the entire war. I didn't know if I would make it back home, or if any of my brothers would die. I didn't know if I could actually lift a sword and kill a man. I had no combat experience prior to that, only some sparring with my old master at arms." He paused, remembering for a moment the rush of adrenaline and fear he had felt at the time. It was still vivid, even after all these years.

"My legs were trembling so much that I almost fell from my horse. My heart was beating like a war drum. But I clenched my teeth and did what I had to. And when the battle actually came, I fought as hard as I could to stay alive, never once faltering or showing fear. And it was then that I killed my first man." Tygett still remember him. He was some kind of Essosi sellsword, a hulking brute of a man with a scarred face and a rancid breath. His younger self had almost ran away in fear at the sight. The man was absurdly strong, and years later Tygett still wondered how in seven hells he had managed to kill him.

"That moment was like for a girl to loose her maidenhead. I had faced death for the first time, and come back victorious. Fear was still with me, but not as strong as before." He looked into his son's eyes. "Tyrek, what did you learn from my tale?"

"That...I don't know, but...well, that fear can be conquered?"

"Exactly." he answered approvingly. "Son, it's normal to be afraid. And it doesn't mean that you are a craven. A craven is someone who lets himself be ruled by fear, to the point that he doesn't even try to change things.

"Being afraid before your first battle just means that you understand the reality of war. It's not like a song. It's a bloody and cruel thing. And because of this, you will do your best to come out of it alive." He put his hand on Tyrek's shoulder. "Son, you are six and ten now. You are a man. And being a man means that you have to conquer your fears and doing your best to accomplish the task you are given. Do you think you can do it?"

Tyrek nodded, a little uncertainty still on his face. Tygett hoped his words hadn't been for nothing. He would never forgive himself if something happened to his son because of them.

"Good. Now we should both go to sleep. You can't face the enemy if you can't stand on your feet."

"Yes, Father."

_**AN: **__Of course, these aren't the Tygett and Tyrek we (barely) know and love. They led different lives in this AU (this Tyrek was born in 282). Also, the part about Tygett's first battle and feelings is just my headcanon. Except for his age; according to TWOIAF, he was ten in 260 AC._

_Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter! Stay tuned for the next one, in which we'll go back to Pyke._


	18. Omake 2

**Omake: Maesters of Evil**

In a secret location somewhere in Westeros, a meeting was taking place.

It was a small room dimly lit by a few torches (more light would have ruined the eerie atmosphere), four old men and a young one were sitting around a dark table. The old ones all had long, white beards, while the young man only had a few hair on his chin. All of them were wearing grey robes and had chains around their necks.

They were the Maesters of Evil, the true rulers of the maesters order, mysterious and ruthless men whose only task in life was to keep Westeros firmly under their heel.

"Is it confirmed, then?" asked the oldest of the old maesters, tapping his bony fingers on a giant's skull that he used both as a cup and a paperweight (and that, unbeknownst to his colleagues, sometimes was also used for oral sex).

"It is, Great One." answered the young maester, who was in dire need of a change of smallchlotes (the room's creepy atmosphere always managed to scare the crap out of him). "Summerhall has been destroyed. King Rhaegar is dead."

"Good. I knew that replacing the dragon eggs with napalm-filled giant bollocks was a good idea. Now, nobody will ever think again to bring dragons back into the world. MUUHAHAHAHAHA!" (that was the Maesters of Evil's trademark laughter)

"But what if someone still tries to do it?" asked the second old maester, whose name had been forgotten (even he didn't remember it. Everybody just called him "hey, you").

"We can always send an assassin. Is that Deadpool guy still alive?" said the third old maester, who was simply known as Breakwind (because of something that can be easily guessed)

"He is. But I would use someone else. He isn't that reliable. And to be honest, he is...quite insane. He scares me." said the fourth one, whose beard was so thick that it completely hid his face (he was known as "Cousin It". He was the sanest of the four, and was also distantly related to the great hero Ser Twenty of House Goodmen).

"Luckily, we have no shortage of assassins on our payroll. Anyway, what else did you want to talk about, young one?"

The young maester hesitated for a moment. "Well, it's a new idea to extend our evilness. But I fear it is...well, too much."

"Too much? Boy, we are the Maesters of Evil! We killed the dragons! We burned Summerhall twice! We invented Pineapple Pizza and reggaeton! Nothing is too evil for us! MUUHAHAHAHAHA!"

The young maester felt encouraged by the old one's words. "All right. So, my plan is to fill the ASOIAF fandom with bad fanfictions. I'm not just talking about typos or grammar horrors, but all the worst kind of stories. SIs, Mary Sues, Jon Snow-wanks. That way, the good stories will be overwhelmed, the people will grow tired, and the art of fanfiction will eventually die."

There was a moment of silence that seemed to last for an eternity (during this time, GRRM finally completed the Winds of Winter). Then, the oldest maester, an horrified expression on his face, finally spoke.

"You are right, this is too much even for us."

_**AN: **__I couldn't sleep and had nothing else to do, so I wrote this. Thoughts?_


	19. Gormon II

**Gormon II**

**Pyke, 298 AC**

"BASTARDS! SONS OF POX-RIDDEN WHORES! YOU..."

A mailed fist collided with Lord Rodrik's jaw, interrupting his stream of furious curses and causing blood to come out of his mouth. A tooth followed suit as the aforementioned fist descended and hit Lord Rodrik twice in the stomach, then taking care of the rest of his body. Throughout all this, never once did Lord Rodrik cry out in pain, instead just staring with burning hate at the bald man hitting him. Gormon was sure that, if it wasn't for the two guards and the heavy chains holding him, Lord Rodrik would have turned that man into a bloody pulp.

"Poor Lord Rodrik." whispered Helya. The old woman was staring at the beating with horrified eyes, clutching Gormon's arm. "Why are they doing this to him?"

"They don't just want him gone, Helya." answered Gormon, patting his friend's arm. "They want to humiliate him."

"I think it's enough." said the bald man after a while, looking at his work with the proud eye of an artist. "Unless he needs a little more...softening."

Lord Rodrik spat a mouthful of blood at the man. "You filthy..."

"You are still talking? I have to admit it, you are thougher than they told me." the other man said with a grin, just before hitting the lord of Pyke right in the face and breaking his nose. "But it doesn't matter anymore, "my lord"." he said mockingly. "Now, we will be taking you out for a little swim. This room has already seen enough death." He briefly gestured to the corpses of Dagmer Cleftjaw and his men, laying on the other side of the room. They had fought fiercely, but in the end it had all been for nothing.

Now, Pyke was in Lord Maron's hands.

The two guards forced Lord Rodrik to move. The bald man turned to Gormon and the rest of Pyke's household. "Now, you will leave this room until we tell you otherwise. And don't even think to try anything funny. Stay here, and you will be fine." The other guards in the room looked menacingly at them. "Except for you, maester. You are to come with us."

Gormon was left speechless by those words. They wanted him to come with them? Why? So far, they had basically ignored him.

"But...why?"

"Just follow us, greenlander." Gormon decided it was better for him to not upset the bald man. Who knew what he would do to him, or to Helya and the rest of the household. He had no choice but do as he was told.

"I will be back soon." he said reassuringly as he let go of Helya's arm and followed Lord Rodrik's captors. He made sure to show more confidence than he actually felt, knowing that Helya and the others would look up at him for reassurance.

In truth, he was anything but confident. He didn't know what those men wanted of him. Perhaps he was going to share Lord Rodrik's fate? He shuddered at the thought. It was likely, but not too much. Lord Maron had no reason to want Gormon dead. At least, that's what he hoped. He slowed his breath as he walked, trying to calm the storm of fear and uncertainty that was raging inside of him. _Whatever they want of me, I'm going to find out soon._

He followed the four other men outside of the room. All the while, Lord Rodrik kept on sending hateful glances to his tormentors, and occasionally to Gormon, too. Gormon shied away from his liege's stare. _I'm not a warrior, my lord. I couldn't help you_. He thanked the Seven that Lady Cerenna and her son were safe in Lannisport.

After a few minutes, just when Gormon was beginning to wonder when they would stop, they left the tower and reached the first of the three bridges that led to the Sea Tower. The sky was ash-grey, with an occasional thunder accompanying the noise of the raging sea beneath.

"Stop." the bald man said.

"Is this the place?" asked one of the men holding Lord Rodrik.

"It's as good as any." He then produced a small knife from one of his pockets. "I will make this quick, we have already wasted too much time." He turned to Lord Rodrik. "Rodrik Pyke, for usurping your brother's lands and titles, I sentence you to death."

"The only bastard in here is..." Lord Rodrik's words were abruptly cut off when the bald man sliced his troath. Blood poured from the wound as Gormon gasped and took a step back.

Then, the bald man did something totally unexpected. In a motion so swift that they never even had the time to react, he did the same to the two guards.

_What?_ Why would he kill his own men?

The two guards and Lord Rodrik were then pushed over the bridge by the bald man. The sea beneath swallowed them like a hungry mouth.

Gormon's heart stopped as he took in what had just happened. _What in seven hells did he do it for? Am I...am I next?_

The bald man noticed the fear in his eyes and chuckled. "Don't worry, old man. He wants you alive. For now, at least."

Gormon had no doubts who he was talking about. _It can only be him_. And suddenly, he knew what their destination was.

In fact, after a very long walk (so long that, by the end, his legs hurt like hells. Gormon tried his best to ignore the pain, longing for his younger days when such walks were easy), they finally arrived at the top of the Sea Tower, where the lord's solar was located. Then, the bald man left and Gormon went into the room, finding two men already in there.

One was a tall man, clad from head to feet in black, his face hidden by a mask resembling a raven's head. He silently stood in a corner of the solar, his hands resting on a walking cane. Gormon didn't know who he was, but it wasn't hard to guess. His robes and blue nails could only mean that he was the mysterious Qarteen warlock that was rumored to advise Lord Maron.

And then, sitting at the desk, there was Lord Maron himself. He didn't seem to have aged much since the last time Gormon had seen him. He smiled as he watched Gormon arrive.

"My lord." he said, bowing.

"Here you are, maester. Glad you could join us.

"I don't want to waste time with pointless chatter, so I will get straight to the point." Lord Maron said. "My bastard brother may be dead, but my rule is not yet undisputed. There are still people who oppose me. I will be quite busy for the foreseeable future, so I need someone to manage the daily affairs of Pyke in my name." He paused, looking straight into Gormon's eyes. "The question is, can I trust you with this task, maester? Will you serve me, your rightful liege, just like you served the usurper? You didn't know the truth, so I won't hold that against you, but I can't afford to keep a snake in my own home."

Gormon had never felt so much distaste for a man. _You monster._ He was sure that, sooner or later, Lord Maron would get what he deserved. Such actions couldn't go unpunished.

Still, there was nothing he could do to change things right now.

"My lord...as you know, the members of my order are loyal to the castles they are sworn to. I'm sworn to Pyke, and now...now Pyke is yours."

That seemed to satisfy Lord Maron, for he gave a cruel smile that deeply unsettled Gormon.

"Your Grace." he suddenly said. Gormon just looked at him in confusion.

"From now on, you will address me as "Your Grace"." he clarified. "I'm to be king of these islets, after all."

_**AN: **__Things are getting quite interesting on the islands. Though I'm sure Rodrik would disagree._

_Also: in Gormon's previous POV, I mentioned Old Wyk as having been assigned to Maron. However, I just remembered that the island is ruled by House Drumm. So, how do we solve this issue? Simple, with a little retcon: years ago, Lord Drumm and his sons were escorting a merchant ship from Lannisport to Braavos, were attacked by pirates and died in the fight. There was a minor branch of the family that could have inherited Old Wyk, however Rodrik decided to give it to Maron, who had married Lord Drumm's only daughter._


	20. Interlude III

**Interlude III: Known faces**

**Marya**

**Gulltown, 298 AC**

This part of the city was by no means a clean place, but it was way better than Flea Bottom. Although there was a strong smell of fish, which was to be expected from a port city, it wasn't even remotely as overwhelming as the awful, omnipresent stench of winesinks and pigsties. Even the sky was somehow better.

The sea, though...the sea was always the same.

That vast expanse of water that seemed to go on forever, that could either make you rich like a Lannister or destroy you. Something that you couldn't help but fear and respect. Sometimes it could be your home, or your closest friend.

And sometimes, it could also be a grave.

Marya calmly walked along the docks, looking at the horizon. She was wearing her usual humble attire, and in her hand was a small flower. A rose, like the ones he had given her the day of their wedding.

_Five and twenty years today. Can you believe it, Davos, my love? It's already been a quarter of a century._

Five and twenty years since their wedding. And almost ten since his death.

She still remembered it clearly. The worst day of her life, something no man or woman should ever have to experience.

She had always known that something like that would happen. A smuggler's life wasn't safe. One had to be constantly on high alert, especially from other smugglers. Backstabbing wasn't unheard of in their job. And even if you were good at your job and knew all the safest sea routes, you couldn't always count on your luck to protect you from the patrols of the royal fleet.

And when that day had come, when her sons had come back home bearing that terrible news...

_They had us cornered like sea rats! It was like they appeared out of nowhere!_

She stifled a tear. How she wished she could go back in time and change things. Her husband would still be with her. They would still live in their old home and...

_Stop it_, she commanded herself. _You can't bring him back_. As painful as it was to admit that truth, there was nothing else that Marya could do. She could only keep him alive in her memories, and go on with her life. Davos wouldn't want her to spend her days moping and thinking about the past, after all. He would want her to be happy.

And indeed, she was, if not happy, at least content. Moving to Gulltown had been a good choice. It hadn't been easy at first, but step by step she had made herself a new life. Her sons now held respectable positions in the city watch and the Grafton merchant fleet. And her inn was doing quite well.

But she would never forget Davos.

Marya reached her destination and stopped. She knelt and gently placed the rose on the water. She watched it float and then, as the current carried it away, she started humming Davos' favorite sea shanty. She didn't have a proper grave to mourn on, so every year, on this day, she came here. The sea was vast, and somewhere out there, Davos' bones were resting amid fish and sea weeds.

Like it had done for countless people before, the sea had become Davos' grave.

She sighed and buried her face in her hands. This time she didn't stop the tears.

**XXXXXX**

**Balon**

**Somewhere in the Narrow Sea, 281 AC**

If there was one thing that Balon despised, it was weakness.

Weakness of mind, of body. It was all the same. A weak man was a disgrace to himself and those around him who were strong enough.

In a right world, only the strong would have any say in matters of importance. In a right world, the weak would be at the feet of the social hierarchy.

In a right world, the ironborn would have no masters but themselves.

Instead, in this weak, wrong world, his people had to bow to the greenlanders and their Iron Throne. They couldn't reave and pillage as they pleased, they had to accept their false gods and their stupid laws. And what was worse, now...now they had become the greenlanders' watchdogs! The indignity of it all!

And it was all his father's fault. He had suggested the idea to the dragon king. When he had announced it to him and his brothers, Balon had felt his heart sink. How could he endorse such a thing? How could he not realize how humiliating it was? He had tried to make him see reason, but the old man had been adamant about it. Balon had had no choice but to obey.

And so here he was now, at the bow of his ship, arms crossed and brow furrowed in thought. His and other three longships were escorting a Lannisport merchant to Tyrosh. So far, they had met no pirates.

That had allowed Balon enough time to think. What could he do to change things? How could he free his people and bring them back to the old glory days? The days of Urron Redhand, when all the inhabitants of the shores of Westeros lived in fear of the longships, and the ironborn could earn a living the proper way.

There was only an answer to that: rebellion.

Balon nodded grimly to himself. Yes, rebellion. Attack the greenlanders, and force them to recognize the Iron Islands' independence. It wouldn't be easy, he knew it. But he was also confident that it could be done. He would have to be very careful, though, and would have to coordinate efforts with his brothers. Also, he couldn't act as long as his father still drew breath. Killing him was out of the question: Balon didn't want to be remembered as a kinslayer. He would have to wait until he died of old age. Which could happen any time soon. Quellon Greyjoy was way past his prime. Just a little patience, and then...he smiled.

_King Balon, Ninth of His Name. Sounds really good._

His reverie was abruptly interrupted by the lookout's loud call. Balon turned and noticed three dark shapes approaching from the far distance. He cursed. It could only be one thing. Pirates. Well, it wasn't an unwelcome distraction. Now he would get something to vent his anger on. He started barking orders to his men and slowly stroke the hilt of his sword. Those fools would regret the day they had chosen to attack his ships.

He was determined to spill blood. And when their ships met and fighting broke out, he bellowed a war cry and began to kill pirates.

And he kept on doing just that for a while, until an enemy axe hit Balon right in his forehead, killing him instantly.

**XXXXXX**

**Arthur**

**Summerhall, 297 AC**

He realized something was wrong as soon as Rhaegar and Jon started talking. He didn't know what it was, just a strange feeling in the back of his mind.

_What is it? Why do I feel this...this anxiety? Or..._

_...is it fear? But of what?_

"Arthur, are you still with us?" Rhaegar asked him. "Are you so bored that you began to daydream?" he added jokingly.

Arthur chose to not share his inner thoughts with the king. There was no need to bother him with something so meaningless. "It's nothing, Your Grace."

That was a lie, though. Arthur's instinct was almost never wrong.

What could it mean, then? Was it really nothing? Or was something actually going to happen? Maybe it was just the atmosphere. They were in Summerhall, after all, where one of the greatest tragedies of House Targaryen had taken place. Even if it was almost completely rebuilt, it still retained something of that event. Some eerie reminder of the tragedy. The workers and some of the guards said that the ghosts of Aegon the Unlikely and Duncan the Small still wandered the halls at night, forever crying for the tragedy that had wounded their family. It was just some stupid smallfolk hearsay, of course.

But...what if they were right?

He chided himself for that thought. What was happening to him? Why did he keep on thinking about such dark matters? _It has to be the castle_, he decided. Yes, that was the only logical explanation. The castle's grim history had somehow influenced him. _Stupid Arthur. You are not a child anymore, to let yourself be spooked by ghost stories. What would Rhaegar and Jon think of you?_

All those thoughts ended when Rhaegar took the eggs and approached the burning brazier. Arthur held his breath and waited as his king gently placed the eggs amidst the flames. It was a meaningful moment, one that had the potential to bring back the Targaryens to their glory days.

The ominous feeling returned, this time a little stronger. _What is it, now?_

And just then, something terrible happened.

A huge burst of flame erupted from the brazier, almost blinding the three of them. Arthur shielded his eyes with his arm and took a few steps back. _Gods, the heat..._

Rhaegar stared at the flames with hungry eyes. "Yes, we are almost..."

Before he could complete that sentence, the brazier trembled and collapsed. Flames started puring on the floor as Rhaegar and Jon screamed in horror.

"NO! THIS WASN'T SUPPOSED TO HAPPEN!" the king yelled.

The flames got too close to Rhaegar, but neither him nor Jon moved. They just stood there looking at the burning mess.

Just like Arthur. Somehow, although he wanted to surge forward and save his two friends, he found that his feet wouldn't move. _What's happening?_

The flames engulfed Rhaegar, and yet he still wouldn't move.

"RHAEGAAAAARRRRR..." Arthur screamed as the world around him was devoured by the flames.

He opened his eyes to found himself back where he was. Only, this time something was different.

It was all blackened stone and burned wood. The walls had collapsed, and there was a persistent smell of death all around him.

Rhaegar and Jon were nowhere to be seen.

Arthur stood there as, all of a sudden, the memories returned.

The fire had consumed the castle. The dragon eggs hadn't hatched.

And Rhaegar...Rhaegar had died.

Just like Arthur.

He finally understood what had happened. He hadn't been able to save his king. That was the greatest crime a kingsguard could commit. He should have shielded Rhaegar with his own body and taken the brunt of the flames.

Instead...he had let him die.

The realization hit him as a single tear ran down his ghostly cheek. There was no excuse for what he had done. He had to atone for his sin.

And the only way to do that, was by constantly reliving the moment it had happened, so that he may never forget.

That was his duty.

That was his sentence.

_**AN: **__It's a little rushed, but I hope you still liked it._


	21. Beron IV

**Beron IV**

**The Red Keep, 298 AC**

Beron watched as the woman in red was dragged in chains across the throne room. Unlike what one would expect from a captive, she neither kicked nor screamed, just silently went along with the guards holding her. He looked at her red form-fitting dress, her curves and face, and couldn't help but find her attractive. From the corner of her eye, she noticed his stare and she gave him a smile that stirred something in his loins. He shifted his gaze to avoid further embarrassment.

"She's quite the looker, isn't she?" whispered Daven Lannister from Beron's right.

"Hmm." he just answered, trying to ignore the pang of desire he had felt as the woman smiled. She wasn't just pretty. She was easily one of the most beautiful women Beron had ever seen. Long red hair, shapely curves, and lips that promised wonderful gifts to any man lucky enough to taste them. _And I had to meet her like this. Just my luck._

She had arrived that morning at the Red Keep with a small escort, introducing herself as an envoy of the "true king" and demanding for Queen Cersei to grant her audience. The queen had complied...kind of, as she had sent soldiers to kill the red woman's escort and arrest her.

Beron wondered what she had been thinking. An envoy of the imposter that had invaded the Stormlands...did she truly expect a different outcome? And what could she want from them? Did the imposter want to surrender? Did they want to negotiate something?

Whatever it was, he was going to find out soon.

The guards forced the red woman to kneel in front of the Iron Throne, where King Aegon was sitting flanked by his mother and sisters. Princess Rhaenys was holding her elder sister's hand, both looking at the red woman curiously, while Queen Cersei...well, she looked like the very personification of wrath. Beron suspected that she would have loved nothing more than to strangle the red woman with her own hands.

"State your name and intentions, whoever you are." Queen Cersei said coldly.

The red-haired woman raised her head. "I'm named Melisandre of Asshai, priestess of R'hlorr and envoy of the one true king, Aegon of House Targaryen, Sixth of His Name."

"The true king is right here, you foolish woman." said the queen. "The one you serve is an imposter! Another Blackfyre pretender!"

"No, Your Grace. It's quite the opposite." answered the woman in red. "The letter you received spoke the truth. The one you believe to be your son is an imposter, and..."

"LIAR!" screamed the queen, with such an intensity that led Beron to look around in search of broken glass. There was none, but he was sure that at the very least, by the end of the day, some people would have hearing problems.

"This is my son, you hear me? My son! Conceived by me and my late husband, and born into this world exactly three and ten years ago, in this very castle! Do you really think I wouldn't recognize the blood of my blood? Do you really think you would so easily fool us with your nonsense? LIAR!"

Princess Rhaenys hid in fear behind Princess Visenya, no doubt scared by her mother's outburst. Meanwhile, the king just stared, as if pondering what to say. The members of the Small Council looked alternatively from the queen to the red priestess.

"I understand your rage, my queen. But I can assure you that it's all true. I saw..."

"I don't care about what you saw! You will..."

"No, Mother, let her speak." spoke the young king for the first time. "I'm curious to hear whatever lies they have fed her with."

"They fed me no lies, you imposter." The woman, Melisandre, spoke, and Beron noticed how her voice was full of spite, now. While she had been speaking with the queen, she had been as courteous as a lady in waiting. She must truly believe in what she is saying. He wondered whether she was insane or just delusional.

"I saw the truth in my flames. Three small dragons, all in the same nest, but one was black and the other two red, and..."

"For gods' sake, this is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard!" Ser Oswell suddenly said. "Truth in flames? Small dragons in a nest? Your Grace, this woman is clearly insane! She has been speaking nonsense ever since her arrival!"

"Actually, there is a small grain of truth to her words."

All eyes turned to Lord Varys.

"What are you saying, Lord Varys? Are you secretely on this madwoman's side?" Lord Tywin asked.

The Master of Whispers half smiled. "Of course not, my Lord Hand. I am and will always be a loyal servant of the Iron Throne. What I meant, is that the priests of R'hlorr use to light fires hoping to see the future. This is a well known fact in Essos. However, they do so under the effects of mind-altering substances. Whatever they might end up seeing, is just an incoherent mess of illusions that are later twisted to the priests' own ends and have no acknowledgement in reality." He looked at the priestess. "Just like in this case."

"Those are visions sent by R'hlorr Himself! They represent the past, the present, and the future! And they are all true!" spat Melisandre venomously. "You will see! The true king will take his rightful place, and the imposter and his cronies will be vanquished! You will see proof of what I say once we take Dragonstone and awake the..."

"ENOUGH!" shouted the king. "I don't know whether you are insane or delusional, but I won't allow you to spread your filth any further! Guards, bring her to the black cells! She will be executed along with the imposter and his other lapdogs, were he to survive the royal host!"

The guards grabbed the red woman by the shoulders. She didn't try to struggle, though she gave one evil look to the king. "You will see, imposter! The true king will march on your bloody corpse and..." She was cut off when one of the guards hit her in the stomach. She howled in pain and made no further attempt to talk.

"Gods." said Daven as the woman was led away from the throne room. "Beautiful she may be, but she is beyond insane. How could she expect us to believe that stuff? What do you think, Beron?"

"I have no idea." He couldn't claim to know how the minds of madmen and traitors worked. He did know one thing, though.

Blood was going to be spilled. Lots of it.

_**AN: **__I'm sure you are all thinking: WTF?! Don't worry. Everything will be explained, eventually._


	22. Gormon III

**Gormon III**

**Pyke, 298 AC**

Nobody, not even Maron Greyjoy himself, had expected things would go smoothly. _There will be many who seek to undermine my authority,_ he had said. _Many who won't recognize the truth not even when they see it with their own eyes. They will try to install my bastard brother's spawn on the Seastone Chair. And I can't allow that. Never._

He hadn't been wrong, and so far, fighting hadn't stopped at all. Most of the Iron Islands had turned into a giant, bloody battlefield. Old Wyk and Pyke were firmly under Maron's control. Others were split in half, with Maron's supporters fighting Lord Dagon's loyalists for control of the island. So far, the only place that had been able to resist any invasion attempt was Harlaw. Held by Lady Melara, her husband and goodfather being in King's Landing, the wealthiest of the Iron Islands was still holding strong against Maron Greyjoy's forces. Gormon dearly hoped the Harlaws wouldn't be defeated.

And of course, the mainland wouldn't just stay still and watch. Sooner or later, someone would be sent to help young Lord Dagon take back his birthright.

That someone had finally arrived.

Gormon watched through his Myrish spyglass as the ships slowly approached. They were still far, but he could clearly make out the banner on their sails.

It was the golden lion of House Lannister. Gormon breathed a sigh of relief. Lady Cerenna's kin would undoubtedly wipe out Maron Greyjoy and his lapdogs.

"Just as the king expected, I suppose." said a voice from behind him.

Gormon immediately recognized that voice, and turned to face the newcomer. "My lord," he said, feigning politeness. "I didn't hear you coming."

The Qarteen warlock chuckled. "I make a point to be as silent as possible, maester." He pointed his cane to the window. "Tell me, did you see an enemy fleet approaching?"

He nodded. "Indeed. It's the Lannister fleet."

The other man's mask hid his face, but Gormon could easily tell that he was smiling. "Well, they were bound to do something, after all. How diligent of them!" He laughed, a joyless sound that sent cold chills down Gormon's spine.

Gormon had met many men over the years. Some he had liked, while others, like Maron Greyjoy, he had utterly despised. But the man in front of him was the first one he had actually been afraid of. There was something about that man. He didn't know what exactly, but it was deeply unsettling. Every time he spoke, his voice seemed to come from a far and dark place, and he walked around in a manner resembling a wandering ghost. Even his cane looked ominous. He had heard that Essosi warlocks were kind of unusual even by their homelands' standards, but they couldn't all be like that man. Nobody knew when he and Maron Greyjoy had met, or even why the warlock was serving him. Hells, they didn't even know his name! Everybody, Gormon included, just called him "my lord".

Gormon took a couple of deep breaths and offered his best professional face. He couldn't let that man know how he felt. Though he suspected he had at least an inkling. Strange and scary he may be, but he was undoubtedly a man of intellect, as well-read as a maester.

"I shall alert King Maron at once..."

"That won't be necessary, maester." the warlock interrupted him, his voice mild and unperturbed. "Like I said, the king expected such an event, and had me prepare...adequate countermeasures."

He didn't like the way he said those words. Adequate countermeasures. What could he mean? Perhaps he has ships ready nearby. No, he would have spotted them. Then, what...

The warlock motioned for the window. "I would advise you to look again through your spyglass, maester. I can guarantee you will see something worthy of being mentioned in your books."

Gormon didn't know what to expect, but did as he was told. He positioned the spyglass near his eye and watched. Again, he saw the Lannister ships. They were closer now, their sails proudly flapping in the wind. Nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary.

And just then, something happened.

He realized the sails weren't flapping anymore, as if the wind had suddenly stopped blowing. The few seagulls in the area flew away as fast as they could. Gormon's jaw dropped in amazement as the portion of sky just above the ships darkened and the sea beneath...

_...seven hells, the sea is blood-red! What's happening? Is it...is it some kind of sorcery?_

As Gormon watched, a lightning came from the sky, soon followed by another two. There was a slight tremble in the water, which soon turned into massive waves that began to violently trash against the hulls of the Lannister fleet.

The first ship crumbled under the fury of the waves, like a drunkard in a brawl against a somber opponent. Soon there was nothing left but a mass of drifting wood and torn sails. The few, distant human shapes that Gormon could glimpse were swallowed by the sea.

The same happened to the rest of the fleet. Most of it, at least. Those few ships that were lucky enough managed to escape, without even trying to rescue the survivors. In the end, of the once mighty Lannister fleet there was nothing left but a few pieces of driftwood. That, and the screams of the sailors as they fell to their watery death.

_Gods, I can...I can hear their screams!_

With trembling hands, he let go of his spyglass. It fell to the floor with a thud as the warlock chuckled.

"Quite a sight, isn't it? And it was just the first step. All of King Maron's enemies shall die, and their blood..."

Gormon didn't let him finish. He had to leave the room right now! "Forgive me, my lord, but I'm not feeling well." The other man didn't answer. He just stared as Gormon left the room, without even closing the door.

Once safely alone, Gormon stopped and leaned against the wall, his heart threatening to burst out of his chest. _Gods, who is that man?_ What he had just witnessed could only be sorcery of the foulest kind! Something that was the bane of everything his order stood for. And what he had said! _Just the first step..._Gormon shuddered at the thought of what he meant.

The warlock would only bring death and destruction to the Iron Islands and the rest of Westeros, he was sure of that. Someone had to stop him. But who, and how? If he could do that to a fleet of hundred of warships, thousands of miles away, what else could he do from a closer distance?

What could he do to me, were Maron to decide I'm no longer useful?

He needed to calm down. He had to go somewhere where he could be alone with his thoughts for at least a little while. And he just knew the place.

Luckily, the rookery wasn't far from where he was now. He arrived there and locked the door behind his back. He half smiled. There, among his beloved ravens, he could find some kind of tranquillity.

However, he ended up finding someone in there.

"What..."

"Maester!"

It was Lady Asha. She was crouched in a corner of the room, her dress filthy and torn in several places, but looked otherwise unharmed.

"My lady...I'm so glad to see you alive!" And indeed he was. He had neither seen nor heard about her since the civil war began, and was fearing the worst. "Are you alone in here? Is Lord Theon with you?" The two siblings were always together, since they didn't get along well with their elder brothers.

She didn't answer, though her eyes did all the talking. Gormon felt his heart sink. Over the years he had taken a liking to the youngest Greyjoy sibling. To know that he was dead..."How?"

"They tried to protect me, those two idiots. He and Tris..." She let out a sob. Tris...she could only mean Lord Sawane's second son. "I told them time and again that we had to stay hidden until help from the mainland arrived, and that in any case I could defend myself. Do you think they listened? Of course not! No, they had to go and..." She stifled a tear and soon regained her composure.

"I came here through a secret passage I had discovered years ago. I hoped to find someone...anyone, to help me. Maybe even that fucking warlock," She clenched her fists at that. "so that I may cut off his cock and..."

"Lady Asha! Please, I'm grateful to see you alive and well, but I would be even more grateful if you abstained from such a language in my presence."

She scoffed at that, though Gormon saw a half-smile forming at the corner of her lips. "I forgot how much of a prude you were."

"Anyway, you can't hope to face that...that man all by yourself." Gormon said. "I understand your desire for revenge, but trust me when I say that it would take more than a simple man or woman to kill that warlock. I have seen what he can do." He then told her what had happened to the Lannister fleet. Lady Asha didn't even flinch. But after all, she was made of sterner stuff than him.

"What do you suggest, then? That we both do nothing and pray for a miracle?" She quickly sprung to her feet, gritting her teeth. "I can't let Maron and his pet get away with what they have done! They must die!" she angrily hissed at him.

"And you have to help me."

Help her? "My lady, how could I..."

"You mentioned the Lannister fleet. Surely, they won't be the last. Willas, Uncle Rodrik...they will send more men and ships. That monster can't kill them all!" She paused. "You will learn all of his habits. When he goes to sleep, when he uses the privy...and we will kill him right when his guard his down! And after that, it will be Maron's turn."

"My lady..."

"Will you help me, maester?"

Gormon wanted to get rid of the warlock as much as Lady Asha. However, the thought of being actively involved in this scared him. He wasn't a man of action. But then, he also realized there was no other way. They would have to be extremely careful, and maybe coordinate efforts with the Harlaws, if he somehow managed to send a raven to Ten Towers without it being noticed. But it could be done. Seven help me.

"Of course, my lady."

Then Lady Asha smiled. It was a toothy, sinister smile that made Gormon want to run to safety as fast as he could. Woman though she was, sometimes Lady Asha could be utterly terrifying.

"Good."

_**AN:**__ Remember, folks: never piss off Asha Greyjoy._

_Regarding the destruction of the Lannister fleet, it was slightly inspired (and when I say this, I mean that I shamelessly tried to copy the original) to a similar one from Scream against the storm, by Perfidious Albion (if you've never read it, do it now. Seriously, it's one of the best fics in this fandom). Of course, my writing being what it is, my scene isn't even nearly as good as Albion's. However, I hope you still enjoyed it._

_As for the warlock, some of you might surely have tried to guess his identity. Well, I'll just say this: he's not whoever you think he is._

_Thanks for reading! In two weeks, we'll go back to Storm's End and Errol, and...someone else will die (yes, I'm a cruel man)._


	23. Errol V

**Errol V**

**Storm's End, 298 AC**

"...and tell me, how fares young Eddard?" asked Maester Cressen from his bed, after taking a sip from the cup that Errol had just given him. He had been recounting him the day's events, after personally bringing him food and water.

"Well, so far he hasn't had a chance to actually do something, but from what I have seen he seems to be a capable and intelligent young man. He takes much after his uncle." answered Errol.

The old maester chuckled. "He is going to be a good lord, that one. I have always known it." Errol nodded. The old man had always been fond of Lord Robert's sons, particularly his firstborn Eddard. Errol, too, liked him. They were almost of an age and shared a quiet attitude and a love for books. Once again Errol thought of how much young Eddard resembled his namesake in personality, and his father in looks. He had taken something from both his parents' families. Hopefully, the best parts.

"And what about the war?" the old man suddenly asked.

Errol sighed. He had hoped Cressen wouldn't ask about that. Although it wasn't going badly, so far at least, it was still a heavy and stressful matter, something for healthier men to discuss.

And Cressen was anything but healthy. His age aside, he was now stuck in bed for the foreeseble future. A new fall down the stairs a couple days earlier had broken a few ribs and a leg. It would take a while for him to recover.

_If he recovers, that is._ His inner voice sneered. _You know what it's like with old men. You know how frail they are. It wouldn't..._

_Shut up!_ Errol hated to even just consider that possibility. Of course, he knew that sooner or later Cressen would have to die. And he knew that even a small accident could very well mean death for an old man.

He just wanted to spend some more time with the old maester. He still had a lot of things to teach him. He...he couldn't die just yet!

_You sentimental fool. He is just a man that you are going to replace. He is not Uncle Doran or Father. He isn't even Dornish!_

Ignoring his inner voice, Errol thought about what to say. "The last letter from Lord Robert said that they had sent an envoy to greet the crownlander host. I suppose they have met, by now. The invaders haven't been idle, though. They have managed to conquer a few castles here and there in the Rainwood, and it pains me to say that some of the smaller houses have joined them." They were all houses that had previously supported the black dragons. Although none of them were too individually rich or powerful, their combined forces had still managed to help the enemy. Errol still couldn't believe it. Why would they support someone who had always failed in his previous invasion attempts? Were they all that loyal to the black dragons? Or perhaps they had been blackmailed?

"Also, this morning we received a raven with news about an attack on Dragonstone. It seems that the enemy wants to take the island, too."

"Fools...what do they think they are doing?"

"They are clearly insane, maester." answered Errol. Either that, or they have a secret plan. There had to be something, a method behind that apparent madness. It couldn't just be a last, desperate gamble by the remnants of the Blackfyre line. But what in seven hells could it be?

_What if the rumors are true? What if this time they mean to win through magic?_ There were a few rumors circulating among the household of Storm's End that the enemy employed Essosi priests and warlocks to further their agenda, and that even the one aiding Maron Greyjoy's rebellion was on their side. They had yet to be confirmed, and perhaps they would never be. But what if...

_Please, that is just nonsense. Magic, real magic, died a long time ago with Valyria. Whatever they call "magic" nowadays is just a few parlor tricks. And the invaders are just a bunch of deluded fools who hope to succeed where others failed._

Strangely enough, for once his inner voice wasn't trying to annoy him.

_You should listen to me more often, you idiot._

"These are dark times, Errol. Dark times, indeed." Cressen said. "I hoped I would never have to see another war in my lifetime..."

"And you won't see it, maester. This...this uprising will be crushed before it has a chance to spread beyond the Stormlands. Before you know it, the imposter's head will be stuck on a pike in front of the Red Keep." Errol was sure of that. Unless they used actual magic, the invaders had no hope of winning.

_Here's hoping the rumors are wrong,_ he thought.

The old man sighed. "I really hope you are right, young man. Still, I can't help but feel that something bad is going to happen."

_Is it just me, or has the old fart turned pessimistic all of a sudden?_

"You don't have to worry. Everything is going to be alright." Errol reassured him.

"I wish I was as optimistic as you, Errol." He groaned and shifted in his bed. "I also wish I had another pillow. Could you please go get another one?"

"Of course, maester. I will be back at once."

_From maester to serving boy. What next, is he going to ask you to empty his chamber pot? How low you have fallen, Errol Sand._

_Shut up, you blabbering pest! This is the least I can do for Maester Cressen!_

_If you are happy, who am I to complain?_

Errol then went to get the item Cressen had requested. True to his word, he was back after just a few minutes.

"Here I am, maester. Do you need anything else?"

When no answer came, he stepped further into the room. The old man didn't seem to have heard him. Perhaps he had fallen asleep?

"Maester?"

_I have a bad feeling about this._

Maester Cressen was still in the same position Errol had left him, his eyes closed and his mouth slightly open. His chest didn't seem to be moving, and no sound came from him. Errol froze as he felt a pang of fear creeping through his heart.

"Gods, no!"

He let the pillow fall as he ran to the maester's side.

"Maester! Maester, can you hear me?" He tried to shake the older man. He checked his breath and eyes. He cried in despair as he did everything in his power to make Cressen wake up.

However, in the end Errol realized his efforts were pointless, and begrudginly aknowledged the bitter truth.

Maester Cressen had just died.

_**AN: **__What can I say? I just enjoy killing characters._


	24. Tygett II

**Tygett II**

**Somewhere in the Stormlands, 298 AC**

Never in his life had Tygett felt so tired. His limbs and rear ached from all the time spent on horseback. His back was killing him. Though it was partly due to his age, his current condition was also the result of the long march that had seen the crownlander army enter the Stormlands. He didn't even want to imagine what it was like for the common soldiers, those thousands of thousands of men who didn't have a horse or even a cart, but could only rely on their own feet for mobility. If their exhaustion was as bad as the stench of sweat that constantly haunted the camp, they needed every single minute of rest they could find.

And rest they would soon get, though not for long. Their march was finally over. They had reached their intended destination, and soon enough would meet the enemy. If their leader actually was the last of the Blackfyre line, like some people at court whispered, then once he was dead the Seven Kingdoms would be looking at a brighter future. Tygett's body filled with anticipation at the thought. He wanted for this pitiful, deluded invader to die as soon as possible, his host shattered and his corpse feeding the ravens.

He also knew that it would most likely take up longer than expected. Life had thaught him that, more often than not, the actual results could be completely different from one's expectations. Being too optimistic was one of the best roads for failure, if not the best.

Blood would flow, though, that was for sure. Many a man would die in the days to come.

Tygett would do anything in his power to make sure that, by the end of the conflict, he and his son would be among the living.

"Here he comes." said the stormlander envoy that had come to greet them. His name was Ser Cortnay Penrose, a stern-looking individual who didn't speak much and carried himself as if he had a pole permanently stuck up his bunghole. Just like Tygett's older brother. They were even phisically similar. They had the same hard face, and were well on their way to total baldness. _He and Tywin would get along just fine_, he thought to himself. Although he hadn't known him for long, he could already say that he didn't like Ser Cortnay.

Prince Viserys squinted his eyes toward the approaching group of men and horses, an advance party from the main stormlander host, which was still a few hours away. "Is he the big one in the front?"

"Indeed, Your Grace." answered Ser Cortnay.

"Gods, he hasn't changed a bit since the last time I saw him."

Tygett had met Lord Robert Baratheon only once, and it had been many years ago, after Princess Rhaenys' birth. He didn't remember much about him, aside from his booming laughter and his inability to stay still for more than a few minutes. And his size. After the brothers Clegane and that sellsword from his first battle, Lord Robert was one of the biggest men Tygett had ever seen.

The more the other men advanced, the better Tygett could get a look at the stormlord. Robert Baratheon wasn't young anymore, that was plain to see. However, he seemed to be in quite a good shape. He rode silently toward them, his brow furrowed and his jaw clenched. Coupled with his armored bulk, he made for a very threatening sight.

_He looks like a man ready to kill. Good, we are going to need that._

The stormlanders stopped. Princes Viserys stepped forward to greet the newcomer. "Cousin Robert!" Cousin? What...then he remembered. Both the prince and Lord Robert were descendants of King Aegon V, whose daughter had married Ormund Baratheon. "We meet again, at last. I have to say, it's really good to see you. Though I wish it was under better circumstances."

"Likewise, Your Grace." Lord Robert simply replied with a slight bow. Tygett couldn't help but notice the other man's grim tone. He remembered that his younger brother had been one of the first to fall to the invaders. Tygett didn't know what kind of relationship the brothers Baratheon had had, although judging from Lord Robert's frown it couldn't have been bad. He must be hungry for revenge. He wondered how he would feel, were something similar to happen to Kevan, or Gerion. Or even Tywin. He wasn't exactly on the best of terms with them, but he didn't want them dead.

"I suppose you are starving. I had a small feast prepared for you and..." the prince said, but was soon interrupted by a gesture from Lord Baratheon.

"I would rather not waste any more time, Your Grace. I vowed to my lady mother that I would not stop until the bastards that killed my brother are rotting in a mass grave!" He spoke with such an intensity and a fire in his eyes that, for a moment, Tygett felt...well, a small pang of fear. If that was any indication of how he was going to behave on the battlefield, then the enemy would be soon facing a living nightmare.

He felt almost sorry for them. Almost.

"Nonetheless, you still need to fill your belly and sleep a little." replied Prince Viserys, seemingly unperturbed by Lord Robert's fiery countenance. "Your men, too. Or would you rather the enemy faced soldiers too weak to even stand?"

Lord Robert shrugged. "All right. But after that, I want to start discussing strategies. You, me, and our commanders."

"Of course, cousin. By the way, meet my second in command, Ser Tygett Lannister. I believe you already know each other."

Tygett bowed at the stormlord. "My lord. It's a honor to see you again."

"Another Lannister...I swear, you lions are everywhere!" He looked at Tygett. "Wait...I remember you! We met at the Red Keep nine years ago."

"I'm honored that you remember me."

The other man nodded. "The master at arms...do you have any actual combat experience? Forgive me for asking, but this isn't a mere training yard, and those we are going to fight aren't green boys."

Tygett wasn't bothered by that question. Lord Robert didn't know him well, it was only natural that he would have doubts. "I fought in the War of the Ninepenny Kings, my lord of Baratheon, and in the Reyne-Tarbeck revolt. I also fought against pirates in the Stepstones, on a joint escort mission with ironborn captains."

If Lord Baratheon was impressed by Tygett's words, he didn't show it. "Good. We are going to need your experience."

After that, the commanders of both hosts ate together and prepared battle strategies. Once the main stormlander host had finally arrived, Lord Robert ordered his men to set up camp for the night.

The next day, as soon as the sun began to rise, both camps became hotbeds of activity. Orders were shouted, weapons readied, and plans were finalized.

And then, it was time to go. Tygett looked at his son first, then at the soldiers.

"All right, men...march! Off to war we go!"

_**AN: **__Next chapter, we'll go back to the Iron Islands and find out the real identity of Maron's warlock and whether Asha and Gormon will be able to kill him. And after that...the royal hosts vs the invaders! Who will win? Who will loose and die? Just wait and you'll find out. And be prepared for a few more twists and gut punches._


End file.
